Survival
by The Weaver Atropos
Summary: Dallas Winston finds himself in a relationship that is neither beneficial nor detached. In Laine, he's found what ever other Greaser longs for-a broad who's not afraid to rumble, cuss, or damn near drive him mad with desire. But she's also very troubled
1. Lust

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_Title:_ Survival  
_By:_ The Weaver Atropos  
_Date:_ 8.28.2002  
_Rating:_ R  
_Comments:_ A little treat. Originally meant to be a lemon—enjoy!

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"Ain't you thinkin' straight, Dallas?!"

Dally eyed the woman pacing Buck Merrill's bedroom impatiently. There was a slight hunger in his eyes; hunger that would—apparently, not be satisfied any time soon if Laine continued rambling.

"It ain't you're business, doll—"

Instantly, Laine's eyes flared up. Her eyes shot to Dally, her gaze fierce and intimidating. At times, Dally forgot they came from the same place. He had become so accustomed to people taking his garbage that he had forgotten that not everyone was so compliant…especially not native New Yorkers. Especially not when the native New Yorker was Laine.

Eyes as cold as ever, Laine made a move for the door, but Dally pounced on her before she had a chance to escape.

"Let go off me, Dallas Winston," she growled, her tone more aroused than irritated.

Knowing she would give in after that, Dally immediately loosened the grip on her arm.

Laine sighed. That was what Dally liked about her—her temper. Sure, she had a short one—smaller than Steve's, he'd guess—but that wasn't it. He liked the fact that her anger would last only a few seconds then mellow out into seductive playfulness and then…

"I need a drink," Laine muttered darkly, not aggravated with Dally as much as with her sobriety.

Dally raised an interested eyebrow and produced a cigarette from his shirt's pocket. He watched Laine undress, all the while slapping his pockets for matches. His search proved quite unproductive, though whether it was because there _were_ no cigarettes in his pocket, or because Laine's little striptease was distracting him, he didn't know.

She wasn't doing it on purpose. She never did. Laine had a natural knack for making people aroused. She could make drinking a bottle of pop into the most seductive experience for any full-functioning hormonal male in the world—himself included.

Once clad in her underwear, Laine spared Dally a glance. The young boy held her look for a minute before letting his eyes drift off. And oh! She could feel his gaze…feel his gaze on her body—searching, attesting…wanting.

Not letting Dally in on the fact that he excited her almost as much as she did he, Laine turned, glimpsing briefly into the mirror that stood atop an old, ratty bureau before reaching for the hairbrush that lay beside her hands.

"Dallas?" she questioned, closing her eyes when she felt the boy mold into her from behind. A soft grunt was all the recognition her inquiry received. Whisking around leisurely, Laine pushed Dally away by the shoulders. Dally, though surprised, did nothing but eye the blond girl curiously from behind a fringe of shaggy hair.

Laine, about to respond, was interrupted by loud rapping at the door. Dally cursed violently, shoulders tensing at the thought of being disturbed at that particular moment.

"Whadda ya want?!" he growled dangerously, fingers still taut against Laine's naked belly.

Laine glanced up, studying her reflection in the mirror, and taking the opportunity to study Dally's as well. The boy, or rather, man, was quite attractive in his own rite. He wasn't gorgeous, like Sodapop, that was true, but he had an air of recklessness that sent the hairs on her spine on end. Moreover, he was unpredictable, and as much of a turn-off as that was for other girls, his impetuosity was something she admired…and enjoyed.

There was a pause at the other side of the door—almost as if whoever had knocked hadn't been too sure about wanting to disturb Dally.

Laine drew in a lengthy breath and upturned her head, running her tongue lightly against the boy's neck, pausing only to study his reaction. She smirked then; he liked it.

Just as she turned her body to face him, another knock, a louder one, broke through the silence. Like before, Laine felt Dallas' body stiffen and the young man groaned almost dramatically.

Glancing at him as he pulled away from behind thick lashes, Laine sighed and hopped onto the polished surface of the dresser. She curled her long slender legs about themselves and tossed her bleach-blond hair out of her face.

Dally glared at her somewhat irritated and proceeded to yank open the door. There, poised to knock again, was Johnny.

Dally's contorted face relaxed ever so slightly as he took in the sight of his protected.

"Who is it?" Laine asked, coming up behind Dally, hands shamelessly tangling themselves about his lower abdomen. Needless to say, she was more than a bit shocked at finding her cousin, Johnny, staring at her with wide eyes. Laine blinked blankly for a few seconds--she hadn't been expecting Johnny to show up at Buck Merrill's place so late at night. The one she _had_ been expecting was Tim Shepard—and that was someone she liked to tease with near nudity. Not Johnny. _Definitely_ not Johnny.

Swallowing a bit, Laine disappeared completely behind Dally, unsure of the strange embarrassment she felt at having been found by her cousin, nearly nude, in the home of a fellow gang-member.

"La..Laine?" Johnny stammered, uncertainly stepping into the dimly lit room. He glanced around at the pile of clothing near the dresser, and at the tousled appearance of Dally's hair. His face flushed a deep red.

"…Dally?"

"Yea kid?"

Pausing, Dally seemed to suddenly take in the bruised and beaten appearance of Johnny's face—not to mention his clothing. "Glory, kid! What happened?"

The small boy, shaking from what he guessed could only be fear, settled down insecurely in the middle of Dallas' creaky queen-sized bed. He opened his mouth to speak, but closed it just as quickly.

Meanwhile, Laine had disappeared into a corner of a room and begun to redress into her clothes. She studied her brooding cousin curiously, opting to stand beside the rackety bureau and let Dallas handle the situation.

"Damn it, Johnny—who the hell was it?!" Glancing up in shame, Johnny muttered two words: my father.

The moment Dally heard the name of the one responsible for his protected's current state of health, he exploded. He shoved everything within a 3-mile radius of him against the wall, and sent every curse and threat he knew against Johnny's progenitor. Then, still in the same violent and furious state of mind, he stormed out of the room, swearing upon God to take the man's life.

Laine jumped up immediately, knowing full well that if she left Dally to do his will, that threat _would_ be carried out.

"Dallas!"

No answer. Only heavy footsteps pounding the concrete.

Laine growled as she struggled to keep up with Dallas. He, unlike her, was wearing padded sneakers; she wore high-heeled boots. "Dallas!" she called again, this time half-heartedly, deciding that even if Dally _did_ hear her, he certainly wasn't planning on stopping.

"Hey, doll—ain't it a little past your bedtime?"

Laine ignored the comment thrown in her direction, but did spare its owner a brief glance. It was nearly 4 in the morning by then, and though the Curtis boys and the rest of the gang had taken up looking for Dallas, Laine had given up. She knew he was all right, just as she knew he would show up when he was ready too.

She was at the Dingo. Well, she wasn't really in the Dingo—no one ever really was--they just hung out around it never really going in.

"Doll—you ain't see through…ya mind movin' out the way?!"

Again, Laine turned, half expecting to see the drunken man from earlier, but found instead a slim, well-built, attractive greaser. He was young too... at the very least fifteen.

Smirking, Laine sauntered up to the young man, who she might've guessed was drunk, and sensuously sat down beside him, bending over only to 'borrow' the cigarette in his mouth. He was startled—to say the least—that she had acted so boldly. He wanted her. She knew it.

"Thanks, greaser," she breathed out, shifting so that she was facing him, arms leisurely slung about the boy's neck. He responded accordingly, and, as he was supposed to, tightened his grip on her hips. Laine curled out her lower lip in a sumptuous pout and leaned forward, achieving contact with the other man's lips in a sloppy kiss.

Somewhat slowly, Laine came to the realization that the boy wasn't really all that drunk—if drunk at all. Actually, he was pretty lucid. Lucid enough to realize he was turning her on. His hands were snaking down her chest in a downwards spiral, and he made no move of stopping anytime soon.

Closing her eyes, the young girl felt him coarsely pull on the zipper of her leather skirt, taking practically no time in tugging it down. "You've got a tattoo?" came the amused inquiry. Laine pulled away from the young man suddenly, startled at his words. She blinked, remembering where she'd heard those words before. Same words. Same tone. Same situation.

_"Doll…ain't never met one with a tattoo"_

_Laine had glanced up into those hard, pale eyes. They had seemed amused for a moment, then become curious._

_"You ain't got one?" came the inquiry._

_Dallas had shaken his head no, then, glanced up at her, "Ain't it a sexy place to have it?"_

_His words were sincere, and from the tone, quite aroused. Laine had raised an eyebrow absently and shimmied out of her leather mini-skirt, leaving him speechless for a few seconds. _

"You talk too damn much, greaser," she had finally muttered, aching for his touch, and deciding to toss the 'hard to get' and 'cool' attitudes she had been branded with as a result of being a greaser.

_Dallas had smiled at her then, she remembered, it had been an amused, hungry smile—one she'd never before seen in her life. _

_"Well then shut ya'r trap and I won't talk."_

_Laine remembered a lot of things about that night. Or at least, a lot more than she normally would have—especially since she was drunk. But perhaps the thing she remembered most about Dallas had been his gentleness. Sure, they had had quite a rowdy night, but when teenage males are drunk and engaging in sex—particularly with strangers--they **rarely** care about whether or not they are hurting their partner. _

_Laine grinned a little at how sweet and out of place he had seemed._

_The two had undressed each other rather savagely, eager and throbbing with desire. She had wanted to see his face, Dallas knew. As he kissed her, he could feel her tiny fingertips impatiently pushing aside the hair falling into his face. But why would she want to know him? Dally knew from personal experience that staring into the face of someone he was with and had never known before, made the situation entirely uncomfortable. A lot of times people simply **didn't **want to be seen—a lot of times they felt more aroused making love to a stranger…wait no, not making love—just having sex._

_Dally remembered being uncharacteristically soft with the girl. He was usually not so, but she had radiated something and, unlike his usual self, he hadn't wanted to hurt her. _

_"Why are you stoppin'" she had asked him, fingertips curling against the skin of his shoulder. Dally had cringed, wincing at the pain that reverberated through his body at the feeling of her nails digging into him. He knew there'd be a bruise there the next day._

_"Why do ya think I'm stoppin'?!" _

_His last comment had caused the girl to roll her eyes at him. "It's taken care of," she had muttered, arms coming about his neck and pulling him close again. Dallas had shrugged it off then, thankful he didn't have to worry about anything breaking or falling off. That definitely made things more enjoyable, that and the…_

_"Get over it will you?!" Laine growled at the man above her. He had been pondering over her for quite a while, studying her hip and the tiny butterfly that lay there, seeming intrigued and piquied. He glanced up at her then, almost sneering, and captured her lips in a most luscious way. He had snaked one arm down and settled it absently at her hip, outlining as best he could the image that lay there, and eliciting a few gasps from the girl. _

_Laine vaguely remembered his smell that night, too. Interlaced with the alcohol in his breath, she had picked up vague traces of leather and what she supposed was aftershave. Absentmindedly, she had stroked his cheek, wondering what his morning routine was and how often he shaved. _

_He was good in the sack, Laine had to admit. She had found her competition in this wheat-blond haired boy. He seemed to know everything she wanted, where she wanted it, and **when** she wanted it. He was no pure virgin. _

Laine snapped out of her little reverie then, realizing she had remained stock still the lap of the greaser she had been eyeing earlier on.

"What's wrong? Scared?"

Laine drew in a sudden breath. He was mocking her. His voice was hard and mean. Just like Dally's. Just like any other greaser. This shouldn't be so hard.

Laine tossed her pale, platinum hair out of her face and pushed forward, burying her face in the neck of her prey. _I'm not scared…I never was—never will be…_

Just as she bit down against the man's neck, he let out a small growl, grasping more tightly onto her back; pulling her closer. _Dallas…_

"Hey!"

Laine suddenly found herself sprawled on the floor, hand captured by none other than Tim Shepard. He eyed her dangerously, but not with desire—no, he was glaring at her with the rage of a person whose friend has been betrayed. Laine smirked absently.

"Find Dallas yet, Tim?"

"Get off him."

"I am off him!" Laine protested, smoothing out the wrinkles that had appeared on her skirt. "Besides," she continued, "it ain't like him and me is goin' out. Me and Dallas are two different people. He's free and so am I."

Tim seemed disgusted with Laine almost as much as he was with Curly, the man she'd nearly stifled in her attempts to get Dally off her mind.

"Yea. She's free--"

"You shut the hell up, Curly!" Tim snapped, crudely jerking Laine's wrist in the direction of the door.

"If you cared for Dallas even half as much as Sylvia did--"

Laine cut off Tim in the middle of his sentence with a wave of her hand. She had no time to hear about Dallas's past love affairs. She wasn't stupid. She _knew_ Dally hadn't been a virgin when she had been with him, just as Dally knew she wasn't a pure, innocent girl either. At the very least he expected her and _try_ to mess with another man while he was gone--it was just the way things were.

"We're leavin'" Tim declared, puffing out his chest in a manly manner, glancing at Laine and sneering at his lout of a brother. Laine struggled against his grip, and all but cursed hell on him, when she realized she _wanted _to see Dally.

"Hey, Tim," the young girl began, seductively crossing her right leg over her left, giving him ample to watch, "Anyone ever tell you to loosen up?"

"Dallas," Tim growled, "is waitin'"

"And?"

"Damn it!"

Laine jumped a bit when Tim slammed hard on the brakes, head snapping in her direction. "Listen, doll—I ain't Dally, so I sure ain't got the patience to deal with you. Why don't you just shut ya're trap till we get there!"

Raising an eyebrow, Laine made to get out of the car—she would do whatever she pleased like doing. Besides, Tim was no one to tell her what to do. Hell—not even Dallas bossed her around.

"Would the fact that he's in the freakin' hospital make you stay?!"

Laine paused, then in a soft voice, "What hospital?"

"St. Vincent De Paul."

"Bye, Tim."


	2. Betrayal

(***)

            She had to go to the Curtis'.  She was too new in Tulsa to know where hospitals and such were.  She just hoped they were there.  Hell, as long as _one_ of them was. 

            Laine was out of breath and ready to collapse when she stumbled into the Curtis household.  As she had hoped, Soda and Pony were both present, but Darry was out of sight.  

            "Sodapop, ya got a car?"

            "Doll, calm down—found Dally, that it?"

            Laine was trying hard to get the message out of her mouth and across to Soda.  He was sweet, really sweet, but as tired from running as she was, and at such a loss of words, it was no wonder Soda wasn't understanding.

            "Vincent de Paul," she finally muttered, eyes searching both Pony and Soda for a sign that they might know where it was.  Suddenly, Soda's eyes brightened, "It ain't far from here—at most twenty minutes."

(***)

            "Glory, Dallas!  You sure took a beatin'!"  

            As all the gang practically piled into the boy's room, Laine stood shyly by the door, not really knowing what to do.  She didn't like hospitals.  They gave her too much a feeling of helplessness.  It reminded her of all the times she had brought friends in, only to walk out alone.  She just didn't like hospitals.  Not at all.  

            "Yeah, Dally—what happened!?"

            Biting her lower lip, Laine absently scuffed the toe of her boot against the marbled floor as a wave of remorse washed over her.  'You practically slept with another guy while he was in a hospital' she berated herself.  

            Suddenly a busty nurse bustled in, her behind swaying from left to right as if she had been a seductress in her day.  "Only 1 visitor at a time--" she announced matter-of-factly, eyeing them all up in down, scoffing at their tousled and disheveled appearances.  

            Laine took the signal and was already turning to leave when Soda caught her eye.  "Hey guys, lets get outta here—I think Dally needs some lovin'"

            He had said it as a joke, and Two-bit and Steve had begun high-fiving each other immediately, but it _did_ get all of them out of the room.  Now it was only she and he.  

            "Shepard came over," Dally announced, looking relaxed but keeping an expertly trained eye on Laine.  She didn't flinch.  " said he was at Merrill's."

            Dally let the statement hang almost ominously, gaze lazily traveling upwards to meet Laine's eyes.  He smirked a little.  "Ya know, doll—Curly came up 'ere, too…"  

            That time, Laine's eyes widened, and her mouth dropped open slightly as she thought frantically of something to say.  'Tim Shepard is _dead_.'

            "Pity I ain't pound his head in.  Damn nurse came in before I had a chance to."

            "Why would you pound him?" the girl asked, having the audacity to settle herself into a comfortable leather chair beside his bed.  

            Dallas raised an incredulous eyebrow.  "Did you sleep with him?"

            The question came rather bluntly, and not at all how Laine imagined it would've come.  She thought he would have been mad—explosive…perhaps even a little violent.  She would have never imagined him asking that particular question in such a laid-back manner.  

            "Does it matter?  You and me—we ain't together."

            Dallas was at quite a loss for what to say.  Then, shifting so that she would not see him, he spoke, "They lettin' me out tonight."

            Laine stood and shrugged, tossing her hair and glancing absently into a mirror, "Well that's good for you, Dallas…and, just so you know—I only did it because you thought I would."

            "So what if I did?"

            "Now we're even, Dallas."

            "Even?!"  

            Laine flinched slightly and backed up when the boy's voice rose to extremes.  Well, _that_ reaction she should have expected.  

            "How the hell can that be called even, Laine?!"

            "I thought--"

            Dallas paused in his rambling at the sudden change in the tone of her voice.  He glanced up at her, cocking his head to the side at finding her suddenly trembling.  "I thought," she began once again, her voice soft and vulnerable, "I thought you were like them."

            She made a small gesture then, an insignificant wave of her hand.  Them?  By them she meant the _entire_ male sex.  

            "Dallas," she tried to explain, voice growing stronger, "you and me was never nothin'—just like that," she snapped her fingers then, "just there…for the pleasure.  Like everyone else.  You know?  I thought, I thought that was all between us—all you needed me for."

            "Doll…"

(***)

            "It hurts."

            "Yeah, it does," as she spoke Laine pressed a small towel against Dallas's temple.  One of his wounds had opened almost as soon as they had gone home.  Well—to the Curtis's home anyhow.  

            "Y'know, doll—ya're givin' me a lot to see, standin' there like that."

            Smirking, Laine leaned closer to the young man, shifting so that he couldn't see anything any longer.  From his place on the toilet seat, Dally growled, eyes suddenly hungry.  Gripping her by the waist, Dallas tugged fiercely, sending the girl into an intimate position on his lap.  

            "Hmm?"  Laine craned her head absently and stared at Dally amusedly, "in the Curtis bathroom, Dallas?"

            The boy seemed quite frustrated and child-like for a moment.  "We're not doin' nothin' bad, Laine."

            "You make up quickly, don't ya?"

            Her remark produced a small groan of aggravation from Dallas.  He wanted to kiss her—touch her—anything…anything but talk about _that_.  At the moment, he was trying his hardest to forget that she had been with Curly.  Curly _Shepard_, nonetheless.  It bothered him, yes.  But what was done, was done.  Besides, she was right in her words.  He _had_ expected her to go and bed another guy the minute he disappeared.  

            "C'mon…later, Laine--" He prodded, dropping idle kisses on her jaw.  He knew he could convince her if he got her to be quiet.  

            Feeling Laine shift her weight, Dallas tightened his hold on her and pulled her closer to him.  Absently, Laine let her arms snake their way across Dallas' neck, her fingers tousling and tugging on the hair that lay there.  Tentatively, Laine pressed her lips against those of the boy, her kiss, for the first time since they'd met, slow and curious.  Dally responded, but had his hands smacked away when he tried to reciprocate his pleasure.  

            Breaking away from the kiss, Laine took in a long, shaky breath and guided her left hand blindly towards the sink.  She didn't have time, though, Dally claimed her lips seconds before she had a chance to grope for the small bottle that lay there.  

            As the two kissed, Laine's instincts took over.  Her lips massaged every inch of his jaw, suckling, kissing, and nipping him occasionally.  When she came to his lips, Laine hesitated once more.  _Stupid…this is so stupid.  You've been with tons of guys before…_

            Turning away, Laine closed her eyes at feeling Dallas' lustful lips alight on her neck.  

            Recently Laine had found it was becoming increasingly difficult for her to become intimately involved with men.  Particularly Dallas.  She really wasn't sure why.  She acted like a complete amateur when she was with him; which was tragic considering the fact that Dally had quite a hearty love record.  That Sylvia had been quite a broad, or so she'd heard.  Maybe that's why she was acting so oddly; perhaps she was afraid she was no match for the great Sylvia.  But then, Laine shook her head; it wasn't like her to care about what other people thought about her or her sex drive.

            "Doll—"

            Her attention having been called, Laine shifted so that she faced Dally.  His lips were mildly swollen, she noted, enjoying the opportunity to let her eyes glide over his well-defined body.  Once she was finished, Laine came face to face with Dallas's curious gaze.  

            "You act as if you ain't never seen me before."

            Mortified that he'd make a joke at that particular moment, Laine angrily pressed forward, encompassing him in a fierce kiss.  Feeling Dallas' lips curve up into what she guessed was a smile, Laine punched him square in the stomach.  The boy stiffened almost automatically, and Laine flinched when she remembered he had a couple of broken ribs.  

            Dally broke away from the kiss and threw the girl an irritated glare. 

            Just as Laine was about to stand, she felt Dally take hold of her face.  And he wasn't being gentle either.  He stared at her, intensely, fiercely—almost challenging her to look away.  She didn't, instead, she kissed him.  

            As they continued to vie for superiority, Laine felt a wave of apprehension flash over her.  Dally's hands were deftly finding their way up her thighs, caressing and stroking every inch of flesh they encountered along the way.  He always did that to her—made her clumsy, tense.  

            Of course, Dally hadn't ever thought of her as being inept or inexperienced in how she touched him.  It was quite the opposite, really.  

            Squeezing his eyes shut and tightening his grip on the small of her back, Dally took in a deep breath as Laine's fingertips dexterously undid the buttons of his shirt, massaging his muscles along the way.  

            Again, Laine groped around for the sink, sighing in despair when Dally captured her lips once more, kisses becoming increasingly greedy.  She corresponded fully to him, nibbling and tugging on his lower lip—playing with his mouth eagerly.  

            "Dallas…" 

            The young man dismissed the call of his name and let his hands wander lazily under the edges of her top.  Drawing in a deep breath, Laine searched numbly for Dally's face.  She couldn't see anymore…she could only feel.  

            "Take this stupid thing off…" Laine breathed out, impatiently sliding the cloth from Dally's shoulders, leaving him topless.  

            His hands had made it their top priority to make her crazy—and boy, they were succeeding.  Carelessly, they tangled themselves in her long, silky blonde hair—pulling, tugging, releasing, stroking…They slid downwards—towards her back…

            Laine buried her face in his neck as he caressed her, breathing in deeply.  His smell aroused her…his eyes, his skin, his hands…his lips.  She gave a little groan then, simply because her senses where overpowered—overwhelmed.  "Dallas…"

            Dally nuzzled the girl's neck, dropping idle kisses here and there while his lips slid upwards toward her jaw.  As he moved, locks of his blonde almost white hair brushed accidentally against her face.  The sensation it produced was positively distracting--it was hard to focus on pleasuring him when everything he did set her off.  

            Between biting kisses, Laine let her hands glide down Dallas's chest, nails lightly grazing the surface of his toned, tanned abdomen.  As she did so, the boy gave her shirt a fierce tug, stretching it so that it exposed more skin.  

            Dallas squeezed his eyes shut when Laine's hands descended even further down his body, kissing her lips to ease the sudden tremor of desire that struck him.  Because Laine was cradled in a bundle on his lap, the moment she leaned forward, the pressure put on Dally was such that his body was pushed into a prone position—right onto the porcelain of the toilet-top.  

            The young man gave a sharp gasp, body stiffening at the sudden feel of the cold, bruising surface against his hot sensitive skin.  Cursing under his breath, Dally relaxed onto the warming porcelain and savored the odd feel of it against his flesh.  But he had no time to think about _that_, Laine was keeping him much more occupied.  Every little movement she made—whether deliberate or not—made him feel hot; control was slowly oozing out of his body.  

            Shifting, Laine pressed one of her hands atop Dally's muscled pectoral and allowed the other to rest edgily on his right thigh.  The digits of her right hand fervently teased his reddening skin, eager to see him throw his head back and take in long, lengthy breaths.

Almost playfully, Laine traced a dancing pattern down Dally's breastbone and past his abdomen, stopping only when his jeans left no room for her to continue.  Dallas seemed to become suddenly aggravated, body tensing ever so slightly.  Amused at his abrupt change of expression, Laine let out a low husky laugh.  Had it been any other occasion, Dally might have simply stalked out, a murderous glare in his eyes, but today...today he was aching for Laine's touch.

            Once again, Laine gathered her hands at the base of Dally's jeans, this time undoing the belt buckle that had stopped her before.  

            A mischievous glint in her eye, Laine suddenly abandoned the towheaded boy's body completely.  Eyes snapping open almost instantly, Dallas cast Laine a homicidal glare.  Raising an eyebrow, the young girl ground her hips above his, just _barely_ touching him.  A miserable look crossed his face—it being a cross between torture and pure bliss.  "C'mon—Laine…not…not now—"

            "What not now, Dallas?"  

As much as she tried to steady her voice, Laine knew it was heavy with both want and desire.  

"I ain't…gonna—say it again…Laine…"

            The moment the words left his lips, Laine knew she was in for it.  Almost instantly, his hands had come about her waist, yanking her down so that she fell rather ungracefully in the middle of his lap.  Laine winced at the pain that shot up her legs at having been so forcefully pulled down.  It was searing, burning pain…

Before a sound actually escaped her lips, Dally had already encompassed Laine's mouth with his own, swallowing her cry.  His kiss was rather sloppy—sexy, encouraging, arousing, yes—but very sloppy.  

Dallas had found that the best way to bring out Laine's prowess as a lover had always been to make her angry.  He smirked a little against her lips, feeling the contempt that bubbled through the kiss.  

"Shirt…off," Dally mumbled, wondering why she was still fully clothed.  Laine squirmed in his grip, legs numb because of what he'd done moments earlier.  Noting her discomfort, Dally uncurled the legs astride on his lap and kneaded them deftly, succeeding more in arousing her than in easing the numbness from her slender calves.  

Dally continued to rub the girl's thighs with light pressure, only mildly aware of her quickening breaths.  Pausing at Laine's sudden intake of breath, Dallas raised an eyebrow, but continued his massage, this time brushing his fingertips across her skin with feather-like precision.  Laine bit her lip and pressed her forehead against Dally's naked shoulder, body trembling just a bit.  

Dally's light strokes were slowly snaking upwards in such an arousing manner that when he paused deliberately before reaching his goal, Laine gave a frustrated groan.  Shifting, Laine tried to position herself in a manner that would make it almost impossible for Dallas not to touch her, but the boy anticipated her move and slinked away amusedly.  

"Dallas," Laine warned, tone anything _but_ threatening.  Dally smirked at her reaction but conceded as he let his fingertips glide beneath her leathery skirt.  His lips lazily made their way down her neck, stopping at her collarbone with three short but stifling pecks.  As he did so, Laine absently rummaged through the pockets of Dally's jeans, only to look up curiously.

"You don't have…"

Dallas shook his head no, but eyed the girl on his lap questioningly.  "Never needed them with you before, doll."

Pursing her lips, Laine gave a deep sigh and shifted away from Dallas.  "I ain't have time to get them," she grumbled, "'sides, it wasn't as if I'd be needin' them."

"Who cares," he murmured, biting roughly on the crook of her neck, quickly disregarding what common sense told him on behalf of his more powerful desire.

"_I_ care, Dallas," Laine growled irately, violently pushing the boy away by the shoulders.

Dally paused in his thoughts, cringing a bit at his callousness when it came to Laine's feelings.  He had never really paid much attention to the emotions of girls he bedded; it was usually a mutual understanding that what happened in bed—or wherever it occurred, for that matter—was only carnal…only for pleasure.  _Everyone_ understood that.  

Brow furrowing suddenly, Dally made to complain, his face almost child-like in its disbelief and concentration.  Laine however, was in no mood to joke around.  She was just as irritated as the young man—if not more.  Waving a hand of dismissal in front of his face, she interrupted his train of thoughts with a disgruntled growl.

"Doll---" Dally tried again, wondering if he could get her to change her mind.

"Oh, c'mon—grow up, Dallas."

_That_, Dally was unwilling to take.  He could understand that she be unwilling to have sex with him if there was nothing to guarantee her protection in the sense of pregnancy; that couldn't be helped.  He wasn't dumb enough to see past that, though normally he wouldn't have given a damn.  But that she tell him to grow up without even letting him speak—that sparked up his temper.  

"Listen, _doll,_" he snarled markedly, standing so that she landed in an unpleasant heap on the ground, "I ain't here for ya to lecture me."

By then, Laine was incredulous with anger.  

"Know what?" she hissed furiously, "go find yourself a whore if it bothers you that much—"

At that, Dallas forged a spiteful smirk, "Ain't that what you are?  A slut that get laid by an _entire_ gang?"

By that point, they were yelling, and Laine was not hesitating in taking out her rage on the already decrepit bathroom walls.  

"Fuck you, Dallas Winston," she said quietly, her voice so soft it was almost chilling to hear it.  And although it was low, it did not fail to hide the contempt that clearly lay beneath it.  

"And, Dallas—" Laine paused before the bathroom door, "I heard from Curly 'bout that broad…Sylvia.  Seems she's interested in gettin' to know you again."

Turning, Laine found herself walking straight into Darry's huge, toned chest, his expression anything but amiable at being woken so late at night.  

"What's going on here?" he demanded, treating the two as if they were nothing more than two additional brothers of his.  Laine rolled her eyes at his tone while Dally glared at his reflection on the medicine cabinet's mirror, trying his best not to look murderous.  

"Hey, Darry…what's goin'--"  Ponyboy gave a tired yawn and blinked a few times, surveying the scene before him.  A thick blush rose to his cheeks as he took in the physical state of both Laine and Dally.  The boy, whose hair was usually kempt despite being naturally ruffled, was a total mess.  

Glancing at him from head to toe, Pony took in the tousled hair, swollen lips, naked torso, and unbuckled jeans.  He felt his knees weaken just slightly.  Laine, though disheveled, was clearly the more composed one of the two.  Her hair was just as tangled as Dally's, albeit hers seemed even more given the fact that it was so much longer.  She was topless, her rising and falling breasts shielded only by the thin translucent piece of lace that was her bra.  Her skirt had risen up her thighs as if it had been roughly coaxed there, and there were obvious articles of clothing missing from her body.  Her skin was pink—though more than usually so—and her lips were just as swollen as Dally's, except that there was more evidence of smeared lipstick on hers than on that of the boy's.  Scanning over her one more time, Ponyboy caught Laine glaring at him derisively.  Blushing, he looked away.  

A few seconds later, Soda joined them.  "Hey, Dar—wha…"

The young boy trailed off, evidently taking in what his younger brother had just a few moments earlier.  

"Glory—will y'all stop starin'?" 

 That was Laine, and by the sound of it, she wasn't too thrilled about being surrounded in a bathroom, half-naked, by guys.  

"I will stop staring when you two either get out of here or explain."

Pony threw Soda a wide-eyed look.  Darry _never_ spoke like that to Dally.  And, if God helped him, Pony never would either.  

"I'm outta here," Laine muttered, jerkily pulling on her top, pulling down her skirt to proper level, and shoving her feet into her boots.  All the while her eyebrows were drawn together, her expression absolutely livid.  

She was halfway through the door when she stopped dead in her tracks and turned to face Dally.  A sort of grimace crossed her face and she clumsily pulled something from her finger.  Contemplating it for less than a second, she threw it heartily at Dally, not minding that it landed painfully against his temple.  Then, she disappeared.  

For a moment, Ponyboy stared at the spot on Dally's head where the object had struck him, then curiously, his eyes traveled down to where the small item had landed with a clatter.  Eyes widening, Pony found himself staring at a ring; ring which undoubtedly belonged to Dallas—and had previously belonged to Sylvia.  

Pony suddenly found himself weighing everything that had been happening recently.  He remembered Johnny telling him that things had been 'weird' between his cousin and Dally.  He recalled how Dally had seemed to know about Laine's tattoo even before she had mentioned it to the rest of the gang.  There had been so many clues he had failed to notice, and it wasn't as if either of the two had been trying to hide it from the gang--Laine and Dallas had been blatantly obvious about their relationship as far as things were concerned.  It was just that none had bothered to discern it.   

Then, Pony replayed the scene in his mind.  Dally and Laine.  Various of articles of clothing strewn about.  Add on swollen lips and unkempt hair…

He felt the blood rush into his cheeks again.  Glory, he knew what Dallas did with girls, and granted he was old enough to know how things happened, but he had never been so close to graphically witnessing it.  But what _had_ happened?  And why had Laine been so angry—angry enough to toss Dally's ring into his face, anyway.

"Get out of here, Pony."

Blinking a few times, Ponyboy registered the voice as being Darry's.  Side-glancing Sodapop one more time and then daring to glance up at Dally, Ponyboy sidled out of the room.  

"What the hell is this, Dally?!" 

Darry had erupted.  He understood that Dallas might not always be the most considerate of people, but waking up the entire house in the middle of the night, no doubt because of some sexual exasperation, was disconcerting to anyone.  Especially to him, who struggled to support his family and wouldn't be able to if he wasn't well rested for the next day.  

Slowly, and in a way that should have very well sent Darry running, Dally lifted his eyes to those of the other young man.  They were shining with what clearly was restrained contempt.  However, Dally was rooted to the spot.  He did not bend to pick up his discarded shirt, nor did he work his hands deftly to rebuckle his jeans.  He remained standing rigidly in the center of the Curtis bathroom.  

"Are you going to answer, me at least?" rumbled Darry, patience thinning by the minute.

"Get out of here, Curtis," was all Dally breathed, his tone warning and uncontrolled.  He was going to explode soon…and he wasn't going to be able to constrain himself then.  

"Excuse me??"

"Get out, Darry…" the words were slipping through clenched lips then, his voice quavering with fury and ire.  

Sodapop, who was still in the room, and very much neutral in the situation, began to tug anxiously on his brother's more powerful arm.  He wasn't going to be able to move him unless he wanted to be moved, though.  Sodapop was only of slight build—he was more wiry and sinewy than muscular—Darry, however, Darry was made entirely of bulky muscle.  "C'mon, Darry—Talk tomorrow…"

But as much as Soda tugged and soothed, it was in vain.  Dally had snapped something in Darry that was going to be difficult to smooth back into place.  Darry _wanted_ an argument; he _wanted_ to take care of things then and there.  Soda, however, was sensible enough to realize that Dally was holding onto sanity by only a thread, and that arguing with him at that particular moment was just the same as committing suicide.  

It would have been amusing really, had it been another scenario.  Dally, being nearly a foot shorter than Darry, would have looked so ridiculous otherwise—fists clenched stiffly at his sides, eyes glazed with murder, and white-blond hair messily falling into his face.  But it _wasn't_ another scenario, and Dally _was_ capable of murder, and the way things were looking, he _would_ commit murder that night.  

"C'mon, Darry…I'll give ya a back massage—C'mon, Pony'll be worried—"

Gradually, Darry's muscles loosened and he seemed to sag against the fatigue that was beginning to set it.  A back-rub sounded so enticing…and there was always tomorrow to deal with Dallas…

Finally, Darry agreed and Sodapop struggled under his weight as he led him in the direction of his bedroom.  Hesitating a bit before crossing the threshold, he caught sight of Dally relaxing, his posture much more composed, though his eyes looked no less menacing.

_'Be careful, Laine',_ Soda thought absently.


	3. Loyalty

( * * * )

"Shut up, Tim," came Laine's muffled voice from somewhere within the confines of a dilapidated couch in the Shepard household.  

"Does Dally know you're here?"

"Screw, Dallas."

Laine shifted so that she was facing Tim, her long wheat-blond hair landing in waves over her body.  "Where's Curly?" she asked suddenly, looking around the empty living room. 

"Out," came Tim's curt reply.  He glimpsed over his shoulder, dreading but knowing that Dally might storm in through the back door at any given moment.  He and Dally were close friends—best of, he'd say if not for the fact that he liked to maintain that he was a loner.  Often, when troubled, Dally would come over with either a pack of cigarettes or a six-pack of beer and they would waste the night away.  It wasn't what one would call consolation, but it _was_ company and that was better than nothing.  However, now that Laine was there, Tim was having second thought about his blundering friend finding him with her when he came to seek solace.

"Why are ya here, doll?" he asked, his jaded eyes traveling nonchalantly over her body.  

"No reason."

"Then go sleep at Buck's.  Ain't you share a room with Dal?"

Laine turned over on the couch, looking away from Tim and studying the knitted texture of the throw above the sofa.  Lifting up a polished fingernail, she absently traced the pattern on it and shook her head no.  

"No?  No what, doll?"

"No, I ain't share a room with him."

"Oh c'mon—"

"C'mon nothin', Tim.  It ain't as if me and Dallas can't live without each other—he's him and I'm me.  And you shouldn't be talkin' either, cause I ain't never seen you with a girl, so shut ya're trap."

Tim remained quiet.  She was right.  He _rarely_ ever was with a girl.  Sure, there was the casual quick one here and there, but that wasn't what Laine meant.  She was pondering at why he never commented on girls as heartily as Dally, Steve, and even Soda did when at the Drive-In or at the vacant lot.  He was _with_ them, but never as physically involved as the rest of the gang was.  It was odd to say the least.

"Where's Angela?"  Laine suddenly griped, right in thinking she'd struck a cord in Tim.  

"Out," Tim muttered again, rolling up his sleeves as he ambled into the kitchen.  

"Want something to drink?" he asked, throwing open the fridge and pulling out a couple of cans of cool, frosty beer.

Nodding, Laine pushed herself off the couch and sauntered over to the counter, waiting until Tim popped off the cap before taking along hearty swig from the bottle.  Grateful for the bitter sensation that cascaded down her throat, Laine smirked slightly and cradled her head in her arms, studying Tim from beneath sleepy lashes.  

"Doll?" he inquired.

"Hmm…?"

"How old are you?"  It was a simple question, yet it took Laine off guard.  No one ever asked her age—at least, no one who knew her well.  They figured they _knew_ how old she was.

"Fifteen."

Tim nearly choked on his beer.  "Glory!" he exclaimed, "you're nearly the same age as Angela!"

Sleepily, Laine nodded and smirked at his reaction.  "Yea…Dally nearly blew a fuse when he found out.  Thought I was older, he said…"  

Laine cringed inwardly at the thought of Dallas.  Of his reckless smirk…his wild eyes…his touch.  Shaking her head, Laine, abruptly changed the subject, "So, Tim, how old at _you_?"

"Eighteen."

Then, it was Laine who nearly spit out her beer.  Eighteen?  Tim was _only_ eighteen?  Anyone would have shot Tim at being at the very least twenty-four.  For what might as well been the first time, Laine scanned the man's face.  His cheeks and chin were dotted with stubble, though it was not the hard kind that comes after years of shaving—it was new…soft even, she'd guess.  His body was one of eighteen, no doubt-- lean and fit, more toned than hard.  Actually, now that she _looked_ at him, he really was just a child.  Only eighteen.  She never would have thought.  

"You look older," she said honestly, smiling just a bit.

"So do you," came the weary answer.

"Fifteen…" Tim continued, incredulous.  He would have pegged the young girl at being at least eighteen, hell—even seventeen, but _fifteen_?

"Oh, get over it, Tim—"

Sighing, Tim shook the bottle he held in his hand and made his way back into the living room, hoping Curly didn't come home that night.  

"Tim?  D'ya reckon, Dallas'll come 'ere?"

"Might.  What'd ya do to him, anyway?"

Laine shrugged and kicked off her boots, "Nothin'."

"Nothin'?  Doll, you wouldn't be here if nothin' had happened—"

"Ya know, Tim, ya're all right when you ain't all rough and tumble."

"Must've been real mad, though…"

"Dallas?"  Laine asked, curious to hear what Tim knew.

The boy nodded, "Popped my tires again.  That little ass…Imma get 'im one of these days."

"Want help?"

Tim grinned at Laine's spiteful comment, but shook his head just the same.  "y'know, doll, Dally ain't really all that bad."

Sighing, Laine closed her eyes and cuddled into the less than comfortable sofa.  She really was in no mood to talk about Dallas; at the moment all she wanted to do was relax.  

"Doll?"

"Hmm…?"

"Why'd you come 'ere?"

Laine let her eyes lazily flutter open at the question.  Why _had_ she gone to Tim's?  At first she had tried to convince herself it was because of Curly, but the more she thought of it, the more she realized that Curly had very little to do in the matter.  "I just ain't know where to go, Shepard."

It was the truth.  When she got right down to it, the only reason she had even bothered to ring the doorbell of the Shepard household had been because she hadn't known where else to go.  Buck's had been out of the question; Dally would be there.  Johnny's house would have been murder and she didn't quite feel up to watching her cousin take a beating, nor risk one herself.  The Curtis' she might have gone to--had she not already aggravated Darry enough.  She wasn't familiar enough with any other of the gang members, so Steve and Two-bit had never been an actual choice.  

"Laine?"

"Yeah?"

"Dal's real cool once ya get t'know him."

"You're sure 'bout that…"

(* * * )

No worries…it's not the end


	4. Uncertainty

"Mmmm…" 

Stretching her limbs lazily, Laine groaned tiredly when her arms collided heartily with a pliable surface.  Growling slightly, she shifted into a more comfortable position, bringing up her arms to block the sunlight from her vision.  Sighing at the fact that her movement had eased sleep from her body, Laine lay motionless and let her ears assess her surroundings.  From somewhere near the back of the room she could detect a faint ticking noise.  Her face scrunched up in concentration.  Dallas didn't own a clock…

          Senses sharpening, Laine bit her lip and held her breath.  Oh, what had she gone and done?  Her mind was still too foggy to think, though it was more because of a hangover than because of sleep.  Had she drunk herself senseless and then been picked up by some stranger?  Damn it!  That clock was so unnerving.  Not only did it serve to remind Laine that she wasn't with Dally and further frustrate her hangover, but it made her feel a prickling sensation of regret.  She knew she did absurd things when she was drunk—but, oh…what _had_ happened?

Fully awake and ready to murder the ticking clock, Laine paused at detecting a breathing pattern different from her own.  Stiffening, she realized her earlier perturb had distracted her from it, but now it was clear as day.  Again, she tried to recall if she had gone someplace the day before; anything that might give her a clue as to who she was with.  Drawing in a sharp breath, Laine felt a wave of nausea strike her as she sought to sit up.  _Bad idea…_  Deciding it would be better if she first _opened_ her eyes, Laine blinked her left eye open and let it widen in surprise.

"Tim?" she whispered unconsciously, his name slipping from her lips before she had a chance to stop herself.  At the mention of his name, the boy beside her shifted and drew in a slow breath.  Not Tim, Laine thought desperately, begging her mind to remember the night before.  A sudden sense of anxiety flooded into her.  _No, no, no, no…not with Tim…_

Pressing her eyes shut, Laine willed herself to recall what had happened.  She drew a blank.  Perfect, she thought, I just had to go do what Dallas thought I would.  Breathing ragged and unsteady, Laine hesitantly opened her eyes and settled them on Tim. 

The boy was topless, chest rising and falling leisurely, and his curly hair was thoroughly tousled.  Laine smiled slightly.  Tim looked so different when he didn't spread heavy amounts of grease on his hair.  Looked more vulnerable, he did.  Suddenly Laine frowned.  She remembered waking up next to Dally.  His hair was the same; minus the grease, of course.  She smirked at how ruffled his hair tended to become and at how aggravated the tow-headed youth became because of it.  

Curiosity getting the better of her, Laine reached out and, with featherlike precision, fingered one of Tim's curls.  She wondered how that hair would feel balled up in her fists--how a single strand would wrap uninhibitedly around her fingers.  Emboldened, Laine groped more brazen curls around her hands, smiling at the ticking sensation the coiling strands provoked.  Suddenly, Laine remembered the night before; she recalled having wondered about Tim's cheeks and the tired stubble that grew there.  Hesitantly at first, Laine ran the tips of her fingers along the plane of Tim's jaw and to the tip of his chin.  She had been right, the tiny hairs that grew there were still soft and supple.  Feelings oddly comforted by the feel of the boy's cheeks against her fingers, Laine spread open her palm, cradling Tim's cheek in it.  At that touch, the boy stirred, breath hitching at the notion of being caressed by another.  Meanwhile, Laine remained frozen in her place, relaxing only when Tim pressed his face willingly into her palm.  

Sighing, Laine quietly slid of the couch she had been sharing with Tim, and glanced around quickly for her shirt.  She found it strewn a couple of feet from the kitchen.  Aside from lacking her shirt, Laine had awakened pretty much dressed.  Though, that to her meant nothing; she had been with guys intimately before without having to shed a single article of clothing.  While buttoning her shirt, Laine raised an eyebrow at the number of beer bottles that lay scattered throughout the Shepard kitchen.  She knew she hadn't drank _all_ of the bottles there, so Laine figured Tim had had his fair share as well.  Laine smirked.  They must have been ridiculously drunk the night before.  

          Padding silently back into the room where Tim was, Laine slipped her feet into her boots and fingered the leather of her jacket as she put it on.  All the while her eyes were on Tim's sleeping form.  _Bye…_

          Just as she turned to leave, Tim's voice pierced through the abound silence.  "Leavin'?"

          Wincing at having been caught, Laine turned to face Tim, a smirk forming on her lips out of sheer habit.  "Ain't that what it looks like?"

          Ignoring her sassy comments, Tim advanced on the young girl and stopped dead in his tracks at spying the frightened look that crossed her eyes.  He cocked his head absently to the side.  She didn't remember?  

          While Tim pondered at Laine's actions, she let her eyes travel down past him abdomen and alight on the cotton boxers he wore.  He was still dressed.  Laine closed her eyes and let out a relieved sigh.  Her fears might have been confirmed had he been lacking that one article of clothing.  

          "Doll?"

          Tim interrupted her thoughts.  Laine glanced up curiously, eyes devoid of any particular emotion.  

          "You all right?"

          Laine nodded.  Then shifted uncomfortably.  "Why am I here?" she suddenly asked, thoughts voiced before she realized it.  

          Tim's eyes narrowed.  Why was she here?

          "Ya came over last night.  Ain't you remember nothin', doll?"

          Laine shook her head no.  "I drank too much.  I ain't do nothin' stupid, did I, Shepard?  'Cause I do stupid things when I ain't sober… "

At that, the man smiled.  Shaking his head slightly, Tim forced a smile on his lips, "You ain't do nothin', doll—just fell asleep…"

Bolstered by his words, Laine nodded, then smiled genuinely.  "Thanks, Shepard."

Then, she disappeared.  

Meanwhile, Tim remained where he was, smile fading after her departure.  "Ain't do nothin'," he continued, shaking his head and glancing down at feet as a wistful smile appeared on his lips.  Eyebrows drawn together, he brought his gaze back to where she had been moments earlier.  "Nothin' but be with me…"

( * * * )

Dally walked wearily through the slightly chilly streets of Tulsa kicking any object that crossed his path.  Although he was still moody over what had happened the day before, his overall fury had dissipated into a glumness that made him appear like a dejected child.

He knew he had been stupid, treating Laine as if she were only an object of release.  Still, his very male counterpart reminded him that he had necessities, and because of the night before, those necessities hadn't been taken care of.  That not only hurt his maleness but bruised his ego.  _Why _hadn't she wanted to be with him the previous night?   _Who_ cared if something had happened, he would have fathered a child if his prodding resulted in a baby…

At that, Dally scoffed.  He knew that thought was against his better judgment; he would never admit to being the father of a child, even if he were sure he _was_ the parent.  In that respect, he was nothing like the rest of the gang, who he was sure, would.  He would sooner convince himself that the baby belonged to another man than believe that he was the father.  

          "Damn," Dally cursed, blaming Laine for his dreary thoughts.  To make matters worse, when he had stormed out of the Curtis household, hell-bent on getting laid and not giving much of a damn over Laine, he had found that he just couldn't.  A hot and uncomfortable blush drifted over his roguish cheeks as he remembered the gorgeous broad that had sat in his lap the entire night, and finally stalked off at being called Laine and being unable to properly arouse him.

          Growling dangerously, Dally tried to summon up a mental picture of the girl only to come up with nothing.  Rolling his eyes and biting his lower lip so hard it bled, Dally balled his fists.  He had _never_ been unable to be with a girl.  It was all her fault…

          Dallas was so deep in thought over Laine, that when two arms clamped down over his shoulders, he jerked violently.  Rumbling laughter erupted from the two that had greeted him.  

          "Glory, Dally!"  Sodapop grinned, "Ain't gotta be so scared of us…we ain't no Socs."

          "Yea," Steve continued the jest, "only us poor, poverty-stricken Greasers."

          As Steve teased Dally, Soda studied the boy from the corner of an eye.  He knew what had happened the day before; or, at least, had a pretty good idea.  And, from the looks of things, although Dally's mood had lightened up, he was still ticked.  

          "So, Dal—watcha doin' up so early?"

          Dallas turned absently towards Soda.  Early?  

          "What time is it?" he asked.

          Soda and Steve exchanged curious glances.  "Well," Steve began, adjusting his DX work-shirt, "Me and Soda's just goin' to work—so it's 'round six."  

Dally sighed uncharacteristically.  Yet another tally to the obscenities Laine did to his persona: made him wake early.  Absently, Dally fingered the ring that was around his pinky.  _Why_ had she thrown the ring at him?

"Look—Dal…you ain't look so good."

Dally turned towards Steve, face neutral, "Where's Johnnycake?" he asked. 

"School…Glory, Dallas—what's wrong?"

That was Soda, and his tone had been more than mildly concerned.  He had never seen the rough youth being anything but angry, impish, playful, or violent.  Somehow, Dally's attitude reminded him of himself—reminded him of how he had felt when Sandy had left.

"Ain't nothin' wrong," Dally muttered, indolent smirk making its way onto his lips.  Lazily stretching, he pushed thoughts of Laine to the back of his mind and enjoyed the presence of two of his fellow gang-members.  True, he normally would have preferred being alone or being with Tim to their presence, but that didn't mean that he didn't appreciate the fact that they were there.  

"So, Stevie," Dally smirked, "I heard Evie had fun last night…"

( * * * )


	5. Reminisces

**Comments**:  More Tim, no sexual tension (^_^)

This chapter's more of a filler than anything else. I received several complaints asking why none of the other lovable Greasers were making an appearance and thus, here they are.  However, be forewarned, I'm not entirely apt at characterizing anyone who isn't Dallas.

( * * * ) 

"Took a while," Ponyboy commented, lighting up a cigarette butt he had found near his sneaker, "but it seems Dal's in good graces with Darry again."

Sodapop chuckled good-naturedly while offering Steve a coke, "Pony's makin' it sound like they're lovin' each other.  Confidentially, they ain't even talkin' yet."

Two-bit shrugged as he fussed up Soda's hair, "Well, gotta admit that for those two, it's some improvement."  Crossing his arms, he raised an eyebrow in thought, "All that for a broad…"

"Glory to that, Two-bit.  If Evie ever pulled a stunt like that…"

"Aww, c'mon," Pony coaxed, trying to stray away from that subject.  He knew that what had happened between Laine and Dally had to have some greater 'big picture' to it and knowing Dally, figured he was the one to blame

"C'mon what, Pony?"  Steve challenged, particular at being defied by the younger Curtis.  

Rising, Ponyboy squared his shoulders and raised his chin rebelliously, "Me and you both know Dally ain't no loyal Greaser.  He rattles on and on 'bout how Sylvia was an easy broad, but he ain't no better and you know it, Steve Randle!"

Steve had lunged over Ponyboy and was poised to strike when Soda jumped on his back, pulling him off his younger brother.  "Ain't no point in fightin' about Dallas, he'll do what he wants to do, and that's that."

Throughout the entire conversation, Johnny remained quiet, eyes downcast, and a slight frown pecking at the corners of his lips.  He lifted his gaze momentarily when he felt an arm drape over his shoulder, and offered Soda a feeble smile.  He was worried about his cousin.

It _could've_ been worse, he reasoned.  Laine could've been with another greaser, one from Tim's gang, perhaps, and one that was infinitely less trustworthy than Dally.  True, Dallas Winston was not the most honest and loyal man around, but he had certain standards even he wouldn't surpass.  What bothered him the most, however, was the fact that Dally had neglected to tell him about Laine.  Johnny wouldn't even know at that point, had it not been that he had stumbled in on them in a rather compromising situation.  Johnny shook his head.  Who was he kidding?  Laine had never thought of him as anything more than an acquaintance.  Come to think of it…

"She's just like him."

The thought was expressed in words before he could help himself, and Johnny found himself staring into curious cocoa eyes.  

"Like who?"  Soda questioned, having been studying Johnny for the past few minutes, and deciding he wasn't quite all right.  

Johnny shook his head, but continued just as well, "Laine.  She's just like Dally."

"Ain't they both from the same place?"

"Hmm.  Yeah, New York."

"Can't be a nice place…"

Johnny shrugged.  The stories he'd heard from Dallas were enough for him to know that.  But still, it was difficult for him to think of Laine as having gone through the same kind of stuff Dally had.  Call it sexism, but it didn't seem right for a pretty girl like Laine to be anything but sweet and innocent.  Ha!  Johnny snorted a bit, Laine—innocent?

"I mean…Ever seen them together, Johnnycake?"

Letting out a sigh, the smaller youth turned back towards his friend and focused on what he was saying.  Together?  Yeah, he had seen Laine and Dally together before.  He nodded.

"Well then," Soda continued, pulling his knees to his chest, "you've gotta have seen how they look when they are.  Glory—it's like they just know…and they move like they're synchronized, you know?"

Johnny thought about that a minute.  As far as he remembered, the few times he had seen the two, there had been an ample lack of communication.  He had to admit, he had thought it to be extremely immature on their part to carry on a relationship without even _talking_, but now that he thought about it…Johnny had to admit that both New Yorkers did have a sort of silent understanding for each other.  Maybe what he had mistaken for taciturn had simply been their way of communicating.  Who knew?

"And…I ain't know if this next thing'll matter to you, but me and Sally—we were like that.  No words.  I mean, glory, we liked talkin', we did, but we just ain't need it sometimes, and that's how Dal and Laine are.  Let 'em be.  Ain't got to worry about them no more than they worry over you."

Soda turned towards him and smiled his big goofy grin, "All right, Johnnycakes?"

( * * * ) 

"Your broad came by."

Dally fell to an abrupt stop.

_His_ broad?  As far as he was concerned, he didn't _have_ a broad.  Regardless, he hadn't like the tone with which Curly had directed himself towards him.  Turning slowly and raising an eyebrow, Dally offered the younger Shepard an annoyed glare.

"Curly, ain't you got better things to do?"

His inquiry hadn't been a question, and if Curly had had any doubts, Dally's ice-cold tone squelched them.  Shrugging, the teen disappeared from Dally's vicinity.  However, the seed had already been planted.  What _had_ Laine been at Tim's for?

Taking the steps two at a time, Dally arrived in a matter of seconds in front of Tim's familiar door.  Not bothering to knock, although he never had, the young man pushed the door open, and stepped in through the threshold.  

He found Tim stretched out on his bed, topless and surrounded by a plethora of beer bottles.  He was trying in vain to block out the sunlight that had beamed into the room the moment Dally had opened the door.  "Close that, will you, Dal—"

Raising a vague eyebrow, Dally kicked at the door with his foot and lounged down on the floor, propping his back against Tim's bed.  Once comfortable, he reached for a bottle of beer.  

"What brings you up at such an early hour?"  From his tone, Dally guessed that Tim wasn't particularly glad at having been woken.  Pressing his lips together as his fingertips worked to pop off the cap, he scanned the place.  Glory, if Tim had drunk all that by himself then, well…

"Ain't you drink enough already?" he muttered, wincing at the warm liquid gliding down his throat as he eyed Tim beginning on yet another bottle.  

"Crazy if you think I drank all of that—"

"Curly then?  Or is Angela gettin' a little feisty?"

"Shut ya're trap, Dallas—I ain't in the mood.  Can't ya talk any lower?  And no, it ain't Angela."

Dally shrugged, "Who then?"

"Really wanna know?"  Tim asked, raising the arm he'd strewn over his face to study the blond before him.  Dally nodded.  

"That little broad of yours is quite a drinker, Dally."

"Huh?  Wha?"  Dally whisked around to study Tim.  Laine?  _Laine_ had been drinking all of that?  _With Tim?_

"Huh?  Wha?"  Tim mimicked, rolling his eyes and cringing at the nausea that swept over him.

"I said she was quite a drinker," Shepard repeated, deciding it better not to press things with Dally.  

"Yeah.  I know she is."

Tim raised an eyebrow.  The way Dallas had answered him, one would think that Laine got drunk on a daily basis.  However, that wasn't quite what had sparked his interest…Tim thought he might have detected a faint note of jealously in Dally's voice.  

"Glory, if I thought drinkin' with you was exhaustin'…"

"Why was she here?"  Dally interrupted, intent on figuring out why Laine had visited his 'best' friend.

Tim shrugged at the question.  Laine hadn't really told him.  Besides, even she had, Tim knew it wouldn't be right if he were to reveal it to Dally.  Somehow, he felt he had clicked with Laine the night before—he had seen something in her.  She had seemed vulnerable somehow.  As far as Tim had known Laine, she had played the part of the sexy, seductive and callous broad; yet, the day before she had been honest, childlike—perhaps even a bit naïve.  

"What happened between you two, anyway?"

Dally remained quiet.  What _had_ happened?

"Aww, hell—don't tell me it was about something stupid…"

Dally fidgeted uncertainly.  He _had_ blown up over something wholly physical…

"C'mon, Dal—what was it?"

It was then that, perhaps for the first and only time in his life, Dallas Winston blushed.  Shifting his weight uncomfortably from foot to foot as he stood, Dally bit his lip.  Glory it had been stupid…and the more he thought about it, the more ridiculous he felt.  "I…I didn't have any protection."

Tim blinked a few times.  Clearly, he had been expecting something a whole lot more serious.  Perhaps a scarring betrayal of some sort—who knew?  But definitely not a breakup—especially not one of sexual frustration.  "That's it?"

"What was she doin' here?"  Dally prompted once again, temper flaring slightly at the thought of Laine and Tim—together, alone…drunk.  He himself knew better than anyone how fiery the girl could get when she wasn't sober.

"Drinkin,' what else?"

Dally's eyes narrowed as he fought to maintain control.  He knew better than anyone not to mess with the Tim, just like Tim knew better than to piss him off.  An explosion from either one of them would certainly result in a few broken ribs—it had occurred before, after all.

"Damn it, Shepard—I ain't kiddin.  Fuck 'drinkin'—what the hell happened?!"

"Fuck off, Dallas—I ain't your bitch blanket!  If yar broads givin' ya problems it ain't my fault." 

Losing control, Dally swiped at Tim, catching him squarely in the jaw.  The two tumbled into an ungainly heap on the floor, cursing and muttering until they were hoarse.  Gaining the upper hand, Tim managed to pin Dally to the floor, grasping both his wrists over his head so that he could scarcely move.  Normally, Tim would've won the fight—given his thicker muscle structure—but then again, he wasn't in prime condition, which made it easier for Dally to wrench himself out of his grasp.

"She…is—mine…ya hear…?"

Tim practically growled.  Of course she was his.  Who had said otherwise?  All he was arguing was Dally's behavior—which was being stubborn.  Dallas had always been one with too much pride to admit he was wrong.  Not to mention the fact that he enjoyed being the cause of a fight—though Tim guessed that was nothing compared to how much he enjoyed the actually 'fighting.'  For as long as Tim Shepard had known Dallas, it seemed the latter was always getting into trouble because of his temper—or his mouth.  Whichever broke first, really.  

Tim remembered the first time he had stumbled upon Dally…

The tow-headed blond must have been around fifteen years old (if not younger), and although he had been young, had already developed a killer attitude when it came to dealing with threatening characters.  

Tim himself had only just turned seventeen.  As far as he was concerned, he had it made:  he had a girl, a car, and a reputation big enough to make him cocky despite his lacking stature.  Granted, his egotistical teenage persona came in useful when he got into rumbles, as an intimidating presence sometimes proved more necessary than muscles.  However, that same arrogance did do him in on several occasions, as Tim often bit off much more than he could chew.  

Regardless, Tim had been living the teenage concept of 'immortality' for some time when, out of nowhere, Dallas Winston comes crashing into Tulsa, Oklahoma—literally.  

Although he had never actually found out _why_ Dally had been running from the police that day, the boy had made it clear to him that he was dangerous and was certainly not to be messed with.  The message, of course, had gone both ways.  

( *  *  * )

_"Who the hell are you?"_

_At that point the young man had glanced up at him, eyebrows raised and a condescending look making its way into his steel-blue eyes before responding, "Ain't you're problem."_

_It had certainly not been what he was expecting, but Tim was in no way going to be unnerved by some junior high student who had just rammed a crummy police car into his T-Bird.  Furious, he flicked out his blade.  _

_The boy had simply glared at him then, as if he were a mere nuisance, and rolled his eyes.  That was when Tim had realized that he was dealing with a kid—a dangerous one, but a kid just as well.  He eyed the leather-clad blond curiously, trying to determine exactly what his problem was or at least how old he was, when he took note of a small bruise near the boy's neck.  Well, bruise wasn't exactly the right term; wound was more like it.  And Tim had been involved in enough gang fights to know that the mark on the boy's neck was from a blade—and by the looks of it, had obviously been the result of a recent fight.  _

_Deciding he didn't want to cause any trouble, much less without knowing about the kid first, Tim snapped the blade back into itself and into his pocket.  "I'll let it slip 'bout the car," he muttered, shrugging slightly, "but I ain't about to let you go so quick."_

_Dally had narrowed his eyes at that, not particularly sure on how to take the remark, but had agreed nonetheless.  "So whadda ya want?"_

_"Answer my question."_

_Dally looked dismayed for a few seconds.  And then, "Dallas Winston."_

_"So, 'Dallas Winston'," a member from Tim's gang mocked, "where's your Texas?"_

_For a moment, Tim thought the new boy would jump on Chris's back for the comment, but the youth merely shrugged, a dangerous smirk alighting on his lips and then disappearing to form an un-amused thin line.  "I ain't fond of geography, ass, so don't try me.  And you," he directed himself towards Tim with a nod, "ain't you the leader?  Keep your damned thugs in line."_

_Tim was surprised for a moment, not quite sure how to react to the teenage rebel, but quickly composed himself.  "Dallas, ain't you a little too young to be out?"_

_Again, a fleeting smirk crossed the boy's lips only to be quickly replaced by a snarl.  "I ain't got no time for jokes, ass.  I suggest you do get outta here though—fuzz gonna be here soon, you know."_

_"Why?"  Tim teased, breaking out in disbelieving laughter at how he was being treated by the little pipsqueak, "'cause you stole their car?"_

_Dally clucked his lips then, not amused at all, and grabbed an unsuspecting Tim by the collar.  "Listen, ass, I ain't got time for this—and no, it ain't cause I stole their car, though, if caught, I reckon I'd say it was you who did it."_

_Unsure of what exactly to do with him, Dally made use of what was left of the police car and shoved Tim faced down against it, succeeding in using the broken glass to draw blood from his cheek and lip.  Tim winced.  "I don't appreciate bein' insulted by a bunch of fools."_

_All at once, Tim whisked around, easily overpowering the much smaller framed Dallas.  He secured his hands behind his back, shifting so that Dally was pressed against the car's hood just like he had been moments earlier.  "What was that, Dally-boy?"  Tim teased, not particularly sure how he came about with using 'Dally' as opposed to Dallas._

_Growling, Dallas practically foamed at the mouth at being ridiculed by what he considered an insolent, egotistical bastard.  He kicked the air in hopes of scourging Tim, though he didn't succeed in anything but eliciting laughter from him.  "C'mon, boys, let's give 'em a warm welcome!"_

_As some of Tim's thugs took Dally by the arms, freeing Tim to beat him up, the sound of distant police sirens became evident.  'Screw them,' Tim thought, a glare enough to warn everyone in his gang that they had better not move without his command unless they were willing to suffer the consequences.  _

_'Damn little ass,' Tim thought once more to himself, as he looked over his shoulder and surveyed the damage that had been commissioned to his black T-bird.  Cracking his knuckles and gritting his teeth, Tim pulled his arm back and struck the boy as hard as he could in the stomach.  He smiled when a grievous groan reached his ears.  _

_Grinning as he felt his cockiness returning, Tim bent down beside the faltering blond and whispered into his ear.  "Havin' fun, blondie?"_

_His reponse, which rather than annoy him, scared the living hell out of him_, _was a raw, strained laugh.  The boy motioned him forward with his head.  "Hit harder, next time, ass.  I woulda thought you'd be stronger than that…"_

_Sneering, Tim wound up for a harder strike, this time deciding the condescending little brat would pay by hitting him squarely in the ribs.  As chance would have it, fate intervened and as soon as Tim let loose his punch, the cops arrived, sending everyone into a massive run.  _

_Dallas was still strong enough to maintain his balance without the aid of Tim's lackeys, but Tim was unable to stop the momentum of his punch, and found his fist contacting with Dally's pelvic bone before he had a chance to pull back.  Tim was stunned at first when he thought he felt all the bones in his right hand shatter.  He had hit his share of bones before, and he knew his certainly did not shatter when they hit another human.  He blinked a few times through the hot blinding pain he felt, trying to decipher exactly what had happened, when he caught sight of Dallas sprawled a few feet from him.  He was on all fours, a maddened expression on his face, feeling around the dark grassy floor for something.  Tim wanted to tell him it was impossible; finding something in that field in the dark of the night, that is, but he didn't have the strength.  Vaguely, he wondered how it was that the irritable young man could be crawling, apparently all right, when his fist had just burst through his pelvic bone.  How could he have broken the bones in his own hand, yet done nothing to his opponent?_

_Desperate to escape the approaching police, Tim pulled himself into a sitting position and tried to cradle his ailing hand in his left arm.  A sharp moan escaped his lips involuntarily.  Glory he wouldn't be able to run anywhere like that!  Any sudden movements jolted his injury.  _

_All hope lost, Tim figured he might as well try and hide, so he dropped on his belly, careful about his hand, and burrowed within the dense grass.  He had no sooner laid his head down that he became aware of the fact that he was lying on something metallic.  Brow creasing, he shifted uncomfortably.  Curious, Tim slipped his left arm beneath his body and caressed the smooth length of the metal object.  Suddenly, he paled and his eyes widened as he recognized the shape and feel of the object.  It was a gun.  _

_Realization hit Tim abruptly.  That must have been what Dallas had been searching for in the grass—why he had been so flustered…and, he must've hit the gun instead of Dally's flesh, which would explain why his punch hadn't inflicted any damage on the youth, yet caused him to break his hand._

_As much as Tim would have liked to dwell on his new discoveries, the fact was that the fuzz had arrived on the scene.  Gratefully, they were busily inspecting the car crash, but he knew it wouldn't be long before they began to spread out, investigating the area.  _

_       Tim cringed almost marginally when he realized the police would track the license number of the T-bird and call home.  When they verified he wasn't there, they'd probably broaden their area of investigation and find him sprawled on his stomach like a helpless moron, just inches from the scene of the crime.  Glory!  And the scare Curly and Angela would get…_

_       "C'mon, ass," came a non-too-familiar voice in his ear, urging him on half-heartedly, "we gotta get out."_

_       Detachedly Tim wondered what the hell Dallas was still doing in the vicinity.  Then he remembered the gun.  "It's right under me," he muttered morosely.  Dallas seemed confused for a moment, but quickly complied.  _

_       "We gotta leave," Dallas murmured anxiously, irked by the fact that Tim wasn't moving. _

_       "My hand's broken, kid."_

_       Dally seemed mildly annoyed by being branded a kid, but said nothing.  "Just 'round the corner, ass, is all."_

_       Together, though grumbling all the way, both Dallas and Tim made it to Merrill's place.  They made a good team, everyone around agreed after hearing the story, though Tim and Dally failed to concur._

_       Once in the bedroom Buck had assigned as theirs, Tim dared to glance at his hand for the first time in the entire evening.  Groaning, he stood and made his way to the sink, letting ice-cold water run over his sore hand.  He didn't think it was broken anymore, but it had definitely been jarred.  He looked around indifferently, wondering where Dallas had gone, when the young boy stepped out from the bathroom.  _

_       In plain light, what had been disguised in darkness was made almost  explicitly obvious—Dallas Winston was nothing more than a child.  His tousled wheat-blond hair framed a child-like, stubble-free face that would have been cherubic if not for the scowl he had plastered upon it.  _

_"Why'd you hafta go breakin' it, anyway?" he asked, eyeing Tim's hand and glaring at it as if it were some criminal that deserved to be punished.  _

_"How old are you, anyway?"  Tim felt compelled to ask, knowing that Dallas was young physically, but relatively grown on the inside.  _

_Dallas remained quiet for so long that Tim doubted he would answer, but after a while he responded, "Just turned fifteen."_

_"You look younger."_

_"Ain't that the truth!  I ain't seem to grow much since I left New York."_

_Tim paused in his thinking.  New York?  So, the mystery boy was from New York…_

_Dally seemed to regret his talkative attitude for a minute, as he remained quiet until Tim prompted him again.  _

_"Like fightin'?"_

_Dally shrugged.  "It ain't as if there's much of anythin' else to do," he paused before asking, "What's your name?"_

_"Shepard.  Tim Shepard."_

( *  *  * )

"Damn it, Dallas," Tim cursed, "seems every time I see you, somethin' bad's goin' on.  You're like a bad omen."

Struggling to breath with Tim's weight atop his chest, Dally managed a slight chuckle.  "It ain't all 'bout bad luck," he muttered, eyes drooping a little as he sought to make his point, "it's 'bout bad timin', Shepard."

"Dal, you know it ain't always 'bout bad luck, 'cause that would mean we've always got it."

Dallas shrugged somewhat absently, "Maybe we do…we are Greasers, after all."


	6. Trembling

*ahem*  I know it took quite a while for me to get this to you guys, and I hope you think its worth the wait.  This chapter's actually a bit of a dark departure—since I'm not giving anything away, all I can say is expect violence, blood, pain, and um…yeah.

_Trembling—Chapter 6_

"Ain't you got better things to do?"  Laine growled at an overly made up Greaser blonde who happened to be blocking the entry door to the Dingo.  Frowning, the buxom woman carelessly tossed yellowish hair from her neck and lowered her head to get a better look at Laine.  The latter scoffed irately at the black roots visibly growing from the woman's scalp.  

"Sweetie, ain't ya…"  

Tuning out to whatever it was the woman had to say, Laine morosely made her way up the bleachers—the best place at the Drive-In in which to be ignored.  She scanned the crowd apprehensively, yearning—though at the same time dreading—the sight of a white-blond head.

Laine sighed as she struggled to find a comfortable position on the hard metallic bleacher.  She hadn't even brought jacket along to use as a pillow.  The way things had been going, Laine had actually been planning on spending the night at the Drive-In, but if she was going to have to sleep against such a hard surface…oh hell—what was wrong with her?!  

The movie wasn't even all that enjoyable.  Usually, when Dally was around, they would spend half the time fooling around and the other half harassing those around them.  Going alone just wasn't as enthralling.  Laine shrugged.  All those good times at the Dingo had made her think the place was what she enjoyed…and all this while…all this while it had been _his _presence.  Her shoulders sagged a bit uncharacteristically as she closed her eyes and remembered the last time she had been with Dallas romantically.  

She nearly growled when she recalled it had been right before he'd gone into a furious rage.  Dallas sure was a character.  He thought everything and anything worked for him and only to please him.  Laine scowled.  How'd she ever end up involved with him anyway….?  And then…there was his _other_ side.  The one she'd neglected to take note of earlier in their relationship.  

Laine shook her head.  Relationship?  There was no relationship…and as far as she was concerned, it was for the better.  Dallas was just too possessive—too ready to instigate…always too sensual.  Yes, sensual.  He had the most insatiable libido at times—it was mind-boggling—and always seemed to be hit with desire at the most inappropriate of places.  Not that Laine had minded…all the practice he'd apparently had in earlier years had most certainly made him a formidable opponent in the sack.  Of course, on that same note, he had always been a bit selfish when it came to who was being pleasured…He always came first—his necessities before hers.  Laine hadn't minded.  After all, she'd grown up in that atmosphere; and it was most certainly worth it—pleasuring him, that is—because it ensured a positively mind-blowing reciprocation on his part in reward.  

Laine sighed.

Had she always been so fascinated with sex?  Laine shook her head.  Granted she had been curious—and despite her age had already had her share of lovers—but until meeting Dally, Laine had never really put much thought into it.  But, Glory!  He made her burn sometimes; his eyes were enough for her to know how much he needed release.  He would stare at her, icy blue eyes half-shut, mouth open in an unconscious pout in an attempt to draw in air, and that stare sent shivers down her spine, because she knew what it implied—because she'd been with him enough times before to know how good it would feel when they finally managed to go at each other—when they would finally escape from wherever they where and touch, and grope, and…

"Laine?"  

Startled out of her daydream, Laine lifted her gaze to meet emerald colored eyes.  She shook her head and blinked briskly, her chest rising and falling quickly at the sudden desire brewing within her.  Swallowing thickly, she finally let her eyes rest on the person who had called her out of her reverie.  _And thankfully so…otherwise I'd be up to my neck wantin' Dallas…_

( *  *  * )

At first she had rejected the idea, but the moment she stepped through the doors of Two-Bit's house and into a raging party, Laine wondered how she would have wasted the evening had she not been coaxed by the funny-man himself to attend.  It had been a spur of the moment idea, she guessed, eyeing the gathering crowd suspiciously.  They didn't look familiar at all.  

"How'd you…"

Two-bit smiled and waved his hands before Laine even had a chance to finish, "Ain't important, babe, thing is, this here—" Two-Bit waved his arm lazily about him, "—is gonna keep me busy for tonight…"

Laine felt the corners of her lips unwillingly twitch.  He certainly was right there…  A distraction was exactly what she needed—much more if it involved a roomful of drunk, sexy Greasers.  

She had been so troubled lately that losing her sobriety was quite a blessing.  It happened a lot for her, getting drunk.  Laine'd stopped caring about what would happen to her or where she would wake up in the morning a long time ago.  She frowned.  Out of nowhere the memory of Dallas maneuvering a bottle of beer from her hands came into mind.  He had always made sure she didn't drink all that much…always taken her to Buck's room if she got out of hand…

But that wasn't important now…Laine waved the mental image away carelessly.  It wasn't important…it didn't matter…the only thing that mattered…The only thing that mattered was the pair of tight arms encircled about her waist, tugging her closer and closer…Laine took another swig out of the bottle in her hand and let herself be pulled.  

She couldn't see anymore.  But she could feel…She could feel Dally's hands toying with the zipper of her skirt—running his fingers over her breasts—his manhood hardening against her thigh…she could feel him…except, it wasn't _really_ Dally…

Laine blinked her eyes open once again, and swayed slightly on the spot.  It was hard to dance when she felt dizzy at every slight movement…The man before her took a lengthy drag on whatever it was he was smoking and tossed it casually behind him, using his newly freed hand to fondle her chest.  Laine frowned at the thought that the man could ever be Dallas.  For one, he had jet-black hair that was cut short and quite greased.  Laine's frown deepened.  She didn't like the feeling of grease against her fingertips—it was so…sticky.  Dally had never used grease.  She liked that about him…she could always touch his hair without recoiling at the tacky mess her hand would be afterwards…

For another, Dally never smoked if he was going to kiss her…which she could tell the man was getting ready to do.  Dallas knew she hated the taste of cigarettes…so he never smoked if he was planning on being with her later on.  Growling, Laine tried to shrug off all thoughts of Dallas, but the alcohol in her system wasn't as conceding.  In fact, it seemed quite content with conjuring up an image of him in place of the man crushing her to his torso.  _Dallas…?_

Closing her eyes, Laine fell willingly into the arms of the man, taking in a shallow breath as his fingertips snaked down past her bellybutton.  Laine winced at the sudden nibble at her earlobe, not particular to being kissed in that area, and growled in disapproval.  Unfortunately, the man took the slight rumble as a sign of encouragement and gave a sharp bite to her ear.  Laine gave an abrupt start.  _Dallas…what are you doin'?  You know I ain't like it when you kiss me there…_

Though internally her thoughts were hazily muddled, her body was more than willing to accept the ministrations being presented to it.  Unconsciously, she arched her back against him, hips grinding mercilessly against the boy's groin.  Quite quickly, they had gone from dancing, to near foreplay.  

Another swig and the bottle was empty…

Laine whimpered vulnerably against the boy's chest at feeling his fingertips finally make their way underneath her shirt.  Drawing in a rather ragged breath, she closed her eyes and pressed a sweaty forehead against his neck.  Her eyebrows prickled at the sudden scent that struck her.  Smoke and beer…Dally never smelled liked that…he was always herbs and spices—his smell was always muskier—manlier…

"Hurry up," she suddenly found herself urging, her tone small and desperate.  She needed release before her senses returned…before she was fully aware that the person touching her _wasn't_ Dallas; she wanted one last time with him—one more touch from him…and, if she could—if she could just imagine it was him touching her, then…

Just a little bit more…

Laine let out a muffled cry when the man's fingertips roughly nipped the surface of her breasts, his touch suddenly becoming hard and violent.  She tried to ignore it at first, thinking it had been a slip on his part, when it happened again.  As he kissed her, his teeth dug deeply into her lower lip, and she tasted the metallic tang of her own blood.  Trying to pull away, Laine felt the bile rise in her throat as his tongue thrust in and out of her mouth, the taste of smoke clear on his lips.  

It didn't stop there, during their earlier touching, the two had drifted apart slightly, so that he could hold and caress her body more freely, but now…now she was pressed firmly and forcefully against his masculine chest, the extent of his desire evident in the hardening bulge of manhood she could feel crushed against her thigh.  Laine wanted desperately to push him away—tell him she couldn't breathe with him holding onto her so tightly, but her voice was a low croak, easily lost within the loud, blasting music.  

She wouldn't normally take things so seriously—an unnecessary squeeze, kiss or touch—she was used to that…but this, this was different.  She wasn't just uncomfortable anymore, she felt as if she were truly suffocating.  A sense of terror filled her every pore.

When she finally succeeded in pulling away, the man wrenched her back ferociously, suckling hurtfully against her neck.  All previous desire had fled from her body, and she was more than aware of the situation she was in.  In a move very much unlike her, Laine blinked back terrorized tears, lower lip quivering in thought of what was going to happen.  She'd heard awful stories from a lot of people—from Evie…even Sylvia the one time she had talked to her—but, it had never happened to her.  She had always managed to turn the situation around…always managed to get pleasure out of the situation…Laine had always turned a nonconsensual sexual advance into a mutual pleasuring—but now…now the tears prickled against her eyelashes and she had no where to go…

Amidst her panic, Laine was aware that the man was leading her away from the dance floor and into a hallway.  Her heart stopped.  _God…no one's gonna see me in there—and, if he's taking me to a bedroom…_

Her suspicions correct, Laine was roughly thrust into a room, her lack of coordination causing her to land flat on her butt.  In front of her, she saw the door being closed and a pair of jeans being discarded.  Drawing in a deep breath, Laine closed her eyes as the man, now crawling on all fours towards her, pushed her gruffly against the rotting wood of the floor in one of the Matthew's rooms.  

It would be easy, Laine tried to convince herself.  She'd done it many times…make him think she wanted him—and that way, he'd let up on the assertiveness, letting her take part in the situation as well…

"On the bed," she managed to breathe out, struggling to get her voice from the painful croak it was and into a breathy moan.  That would be all the more convincing.  

"It's faster here," came the response, "you wanted me to hurry it up, ain't ya?"

Laine cursed her earlier, drunk persona.

"But," she had finally managed to find that airy tone she'd been looking for, "it hurts here…and," as he rubbed himself against her once again, Laine input a groan for good measure.  As soon as he'd ease up, everything would change and—

"I like it when it hurts.  Dig, baby?"  Laine's eyes widened at the remark.  Not only had his words scared her, but his eyes had blazed malevolently at her as he spoke.   

_I like it when it hurts._

"But—"  Laine was silenced by a warning glare.

"Shut ya're trap or I ain't—"

"Ain't what?" she countered bravely—perhaps stupidly, and then, "I ain't gonna shut up 'til—" 

All words were robbed from her lips when a hard hand contacted heavily against the side of her left cheek, stinging her face and numbing all sensation to that side of her face.  "Shut ya're trap, hear?"

Laine had to blink a few times to get her eyes into focus again, and when she did, the tears gathering in them proved her earlier effort in vain.  Her cheek hurt…

Lifting an unconscious hand to her face in reflex, Laine cringed when another smack struck her heartily, this time against the flesh of her other cheek.  Her face burned and stung, and all she wanted to do was rub at it, but she was afraid…afraid that he would slap her if she tried to…

"And if ya're gonna talk—it better be cause ya're screamin' in pain."

Suddenly, her hands were above her head, wrists painfully gathered together at the whim of the boy's strength.  The fact that her hands were rendered useless made it all the more despairing.  She couldn't fight him off—not with her small frame.  Fifteen years was too little in experience of self-defense…too little of a body to fight off anything...  Laine had always relied on her wits—her attitude to get her out of a situation, but…

Swinging her legs wildly, Laine tried to kick at her aggressor, knowing full well that a hit in the groin would render him useless for at least a couple of seconds.  But he saw her attempt before her foot was even close to him, and easily thwarted any further endeavors by straddling her hips with his knees.  Laine gasped at the pain the motion produced and tried, albeit a bit ridiculously, to buck him off with her hips.  The man laughed off her attempts.  

"Fiery, ain't ya, doll?"  the comment came coupled with an unappreciated lick of her face.   Laine felt as if she would hurl at any given moment.  The fact that she could feel him more easily, his pants having been discarded moments earlier only made her feel worse, as his arousal was now snugly pressed against her abdomen.

_God…_

When a sharp tug was given to her skirt, Laine felt a coldness sweep over her.  Down by her knees, the constricting leather only helped to further restrain her against escape.  The man was quick to work off her top as well, lips eagerly ravaging every inch that was set free.  

_Please…_

Laine drew in a slow, broken breath and let the tears she'd been holding back fall uncontrollably down her bruised cheeks.  She wouldn't get out of this…She could already feel his hands undoing the fastenings on her bra—could feel his greedy hands cupping the naked flesh, cradling it…hurting it.

_Don't let it happen…_

His hands dipped lower with every passing second, and Laine found she had no more energy to fight with.  Why bother?  He was bigger, stronger…in control…

_Please…_

His mouth, his disgusting, vile mouth found its way to the inside of her thighs…

_I don't…want…_


	7. Trembling II

_Trembling II—Chapter 7_

Please… 

Laine drew in a slow, broken breath and let the tears she'd been holding back fall uncontrollably down her bruised cheeks.  She wouldn't get out of this…She could already feel his hands undoing the fastenings on her bra—could feel his greedy hands cupping the naked flesh, cradling it…hurting it.

_Don't let it happen…_

His hands dipped lower with every passing second, and Laine found she had no more energy to fight with.  Why bother?  He was bigger, stronger…in control…

_Please…_

His mouth, his disgusting, vile mouth found its way to the inside of her thighs…

_I don't…want…_

And then, the door was struck open by a caressing couple.  They hadn't taken note of her, nor or her attacker—who had frozen, and were obliviously undoing each other's belts.  She heard their nervous pants and sensual laughter as their clothing was finally tossed away and then…

_Dallas?_

Her dark blue eyes encountered icy, steely ones, and she read his expression at once as being dangerous.  His eyes scanned her—topless, skirtless, and sweaty—and her counterpart in a fleeting motion.  His eyes seemed to narrow.  Then, he turned suddenly, grabbing his earlier partner rudely about the elbow, and making to slam the door when Laine let out an ear-piercing scream.  

Almost as quickly as he had made his exit, Dally re-entered the room, the girl at his side disappointed at the interruption.  But that didn't matter, Laine had resumed her earlier kicking and wriggling, succeeding in letting Dallas know that, unlike what it looked like, she wasn't willingly cavorting with the man hovering above her.  

Without thinking, the young man struck her once more, serious in his request for her to keep quiet, and glared at Dally.  "Get ya're ass outta here—this ain't 'bout you—"

Eyes flaring the moment he caught the deliberate punch that caught Laine in the eye, Dally pounced on the man as if he were the devil himself.  The girl Dally'd entered with  screeched frantically at the sight, her heels echoing loudly as she turned and ran, her cheap perfume the only evidence she had been there at all.  

Laine scurried away the minute Dally jabbed the man across the face, shakingly gathering her clothing and pulling it on with uneven jerks.  Glory she wanted to get out—she wanted Dallas to kill the bastard—which she was sure would happen…but—more than anything she wanted to get out…

Eager to leave, Laine slipped and landed roughly on the floor, her ankle twisting painfully.  But that was nothing compared to her desire to exit, so she began to crawl frantically towards the door, arms pulling her clumsily along.  Once near the threshold, Laine pulled herself up using the doorknob.  She'd thank Dally's hormones later on, at that particular moment she just wanted to hurl.

She ran out of the Matthew's household, shaky legs not carrying her any farther than the porch before she turned her head over the railing and threw up.  But that still wasn't enough.  She needed air…Laine took in a deep breath and grasped the railing harder than she had before, her knuckles white from exertion, and hurled once more.  _Glory…_

All of a sudden Laine felt cold.  Realization of what had just happened, and of what could've happened sank in.  Shivering, she fell to her knees and felt her eyes begin to water once more.  "Hell," she cursed softly, her voice no higher than a whisper, "I ain't never cried before…"

She didn't want to move, but at the same time, wanted desperately to run as far as she could from Two-Bit's house.  _Yeah right._  Laine's legs couldn't have carried her anywhere even if she had wanted them too.  Apart from the fact that she just couldn't muster the strength to move, the heel of her boot had been broken in her efforts to get away from her aggressor.  Laine shivered.  The adrenaline the situation had let loose was gone, and now, she was tired and afraid.  

Laine was so in tune with her thoughts, and so fixated on what had happened, that when two arms came gently about her waist, she let out a terrified shriek and jolted away.  Shivering violently, she pulled both her arms above her head in a protective gesture and curled into a ball.  

"It's me," came the familiar voice, a soft tenor with traces of a deeper baritone lurking somewhere near.  Laine pulled her arms down slightly and glanced up at the tall youth.  He kneeled considerately and examined her face quietly.  

"Where's the girl?"  Laine asked, her voice more curious than venomous, forgetting that the woman had run away screaming like an abandoned child.  She risked a glance up into Dally's eyes, and swallowed thickly at the sight of his face.  Glory, had he taken a beating…

The boy shrugged in response and leaned in closer to her, breathing in a mixture of alcohol, vomit, and sweat.  "You okay?"

Laine wanted to kick and hurt Dallas at the question.  What did he think?  She'd almost been…

The arms that she had jumped away from a few minutes ago came back around her, and this time applied enough pressure to pick her up.  Laine drew in a ragged breath.  Having Dally press her so protectively against his chest brought back the memories of that man doing the same…but this was different.  Dallas' grip was firm, but gentle, and his breathing was slow…not panting not like the other man had been…no—it was almost soothing…relaxing…Laine felt her eyes lazily falling shut…

Waking in a rather snug and protective embrace, Laine realized she was still in Dally's arms.  Pausing, Dally stepped in through a threshold and closed a door behind him.  The young girl's ears were suddenly bombarded with loud, tacky music.  Her body tensed inevitably against Dally, her hazy mind supposing they had returned to the party.  If that was the case, then Dallas knew the layout of Two-Bit's house quite well, since he strode confidently and purposely in one direction.  

Laine's ears picked up vague greetings directed at Dally, all delighted at seeing him, but she had closed her eyes in fear of seeing her attacker, so had little idea of where they were going.  

Laine kept herself blissfully unaware of her surroundings until she heard the sharp click of a lock and the sound of music fading.  Opening her eyes uncertainly, she took in the view from Dally's arms, realizing, for the first time, that she was in one of Buck Merrill's rooms—namely, _Dally's_ room. 

The boy maneuvered himself deftly throughout the room, avoiding various objects strewn carelessly about, and reached the bed that lay in the far corner.  Without even pausing, he placed her gently in the middle, his arms leaving her body almost unwillingly.  Then, he disappeared.  

In the bathroom, Dally turned on the faucet and splashed icy cold water on his face.  His heart was still pounding angrily, and his mind was raging at the thought that Laine—_Laine_, of all people, had almost been raped.  He hadn't exactly known how he had managed to pry himself from the man he'd nearly beaten to death.  It was Mark, he'd realized.  He was one from Tim's gang—and one that—he knew, wouldn't live more than a month after he was through with him.  

His blood boiled at the thought of what would have happened to Laine if he hadn't entered the room the moment he had.  One or two minutes later would have been too late, he'd realized, remembering the only article of clothing still on Laine when he'd burst into the bedroom had been black panties.  But _what_ had she been doing there in the first place?  She wasn't and had never been friendly with Two-Bit…so, her appearance—at his house of all places, seemed strange.  And why hadn't anybody noticed she'd been in trouble…?

Dally splashed his face once more.  But it was useless, he couldn't erase the image of her face—looking so dejected and gone, the expression it had held the moment he had stumbled in on the pair.  And her eyes…they'd been so blank—so emotionless…almost dead…

_Dead…_

Glancing up at his reflection on the medicine cabinet, Dally studied his own face.  _Dead…_

A small sob distracted him, and he turned back, stopping uncertainly at the frame of the door.  When had she woken up?

He was more than slightly unnerved by her tears.  Laine wasn't a crier—and he couldn't remember a time when he had seen her cry apart from that day.  That bastard must have hurt her—that would be the only reason she'd be crying…

"Laine?"  his tone was quiet, uncertain.  His eyes took in the sight of her—her small body piled in the middle of the bed, shaking.  He approached her cautiously, not sure how to act, and sat down at the edge of the bed.  He couldn't help but notice how small she was…how tiny, really…and folded in on herself, like that—she looked like a child.  _She is a child_, his mind whispered, _Fifteen years…still a child_…

Not sure what came over him, Dally suddenly gathered Laine in his arms and scooped her into his lap.  She didn't fight his embrace, but rather, melted into it, the tears beginning anew.  She grasped tightly onto the collar of his shirt, sobs racking her body as she strengthened her grip on his neck.  In response to her cries, Dally tenderly smoothed small circles on her back, knowing that there was little else he could do.  

Soon, the tears subsided, but Laine remained where she was, sheltered in his embrace.  Vulnerably, she blinked red eyes up at him, wondering what to do next, and quite sure that the recent happenings meant she and Dallas were on level ground and that their fight was behind them.

Dally took that opportunity to study her features.  Her face was a mess—her eye was swollen to such an extent that he feared she'd lose sight in it for a couple of days.  Her lips were cut and bleeding, and he could see—much to his repulsion, the imprint of teeth running along the outside of her lower lip.  Dally wondered how much more damage existed—how much damage lay beneath her clothes…

"Glory, doll—" he began absently, his hands coming to rest at her hips. 

The girl lowered her eyes once more, thinking his remark had been mocking as opposed to concerned.  But he caught her arms before she had a chance to slide off him, and pulled her close for a final hug.  Then, just as quickly as he had comforted her, he had left her side.  

Laine studied him apprehensively from her position on his bed.  He was standing at the far end of the room, muscles stiff and the skin over his face stretched taut.  Anger toppling his self-control, Dallas was unable to stop himself, and charged his fist into the wall, a loud crack echoing in the room.  Behind him, Laine cringed, afraid at the outburst and disappearing behind a fringe of shaggy bangs.  

A small whimper alerted Dally to how much his action had scared the young girl and when his gaze swept over her, he became aware that her trembling had resumed.  Cursing at himself, he fought to keep calm and returned to her side.  "Doll," he began, shaking her arms gently, "…you need a shower—"

Still shivering, Laine was surprised that Dally had managed to decipher what she had been thinking.  Ever since they'd gotten away from Two-Bit's house, the only thing she'd wanted to do was wash away the sensation of the man's arms roaming over her body.  She felt filthy…like she needed to scrub away at something…but she wasn't quite sure what.

"C'mon," the boy encouraged, picking her up once again, and carrying her to the bathroom.  He settled her down gently against the toilet top, watching her to make sure she wouldn't fall, before turning on the running water, adjusting the knobs so that it would be warm enough.  When all that was done, he turned to study her hesitantly.  

He wondered whether she'd be able to bathe herself—whether she was strong enough…and whether she _wanted_ to be alone.  After what had happened, he couldn't go ahead with liberties he would have otherwise taken.  

"I…I—can't…"

Dally met Laine's eyes at the confession.  _She couldn't…_

Nodding, Dallas bent down before her, and let his dexterous fingers begin to undo the fastenings of her boots.  It took a while, but soon, they were off her.  Then, rising from his squatting position into one that was level with her eyes, Dally leisurely undid the many buttons running down the hem of her shirt.  He noticed, feeling sick, that most—if not all—had been broken off, and that the shirt was staying on simply because of two buttons.  

"Your favorite shirt," he muttered softly, eyeing the torn fabric ruefully.  It was something trivial compared to the situation, yes, but Dallas had always had the habit of focusing on smaller, less tragic occurrences to take his mind away from the bigger picture.  

Running smooth hands over the cloth that still hung from her shoulders in an effort to pull it off, Dally was promptly struck when his eyes alighted on a dark bluish mar at the very base of her neck.  He craned his neck incredulously, disbelieving that a person could rejoice in hurting another like Laine had been hurt, and caught sight of another bruise, that one clearly made by a suckling mouth.          Disturbed more than he cared to admit, Dally suddenly found himself fearing what he would find once the rest of her clothing was discarded.  

Shaking his head as he returned to a kneeling position, the young man wrapped his arms about Laine's thin upper back and, pressing his lips unconsciously against her neck, carefully unbuckled the clip of her bra.  Laine found herself shivering at the touch, half afraid at his apparent strength and manhood, and half aching for him just the same.  "Don't…Don't take it off—"  

Dally paused, each of his hands holding on to a different side of the girl's bra strap, and met her eyes curiously.  It was an odd request, especially since the undergarment was already riding low on her shoulders, but one that, in a way, Dally understood.

"Do I leave it on, then?"  

Laine nodded curtly, a strange fear striking and settling amidst her throat, and suddenly, more than anything, all she wanted was to be dressed again.  

Obeying Laine's request, Dally grasped onto each strap more tightly and worked it back again, pulling away only when it had been refastened.  Laine knew well enough  she needed to stand up if she was going to undress, and unsteadily seized a fistful of Dally's shirt in her hand, rising to her feet.  In response, Dallas placed a stabilizing hand at her waist, letting her own find their way about his torso.  Once he was sure she had a firm grip, the tow-headed youth tentatively tugged down the zipper of her skirt and she was clad in skimpy, black panties.  

"Get in," Dally muttered, deciding she would feel uneasy being entirely nude in his presence.  Besides, he wasn't quite sure he could handle seeing her that way, either.  It would only make his blood boil—only serve to remind him that Mark would've seen her like that...

Holding onto Dally for strength, Laine gave a small squeal when the young man picked her up abruptly, choosing it better to carry her into the tub.  He was being uncharacteristically considerate.  Dallas Winston wasn't the type to comfort a person as they cried; wasn't the kind to remain so uncertain when he was in control…and most certainly wasn't a person to put others before himself…

"…Too cold?" 

Laine shook her head no at Dally's inquiry.  She was shaking, yes, but not because she was cold.  Somehow, she just didn't feel well at all.  Things all of a sudden became confusing; she was afraid of Dally—of what he might do, but at the same time knew he would never hurt her.  She felt sickly—as if her breath couldn't come quick enough.  Laine wanted to cover her body, wanted desperately to run and hide…but then, then where would she go?

"It was Mark," came the dark utterance.  

Laine, startled, followed the voice to Dally's disgusted expression and narrowed her eyes in confusion.  _Mark?_

"Who was Mark?" she questioned, not quite understanding the implications in his statement.  

Dally spun on his toes and focused his gaze a few inches to the right of Laine's face.  "He's from Tim's gang."

Realization seemed to suddenly dawn on Laine.  Her expression darkened.  Had there been any particular reason for Dally to have to bring _that_ up?  "Call, Tim."

Dally's eyebrows came together uncertainly.  _Call Tim?_

"Call him?  Laine there ain't no reason for Tim to hafta—"

"An' tell him to make sure they kill 'em."

Dally paused in his ranting.  _Kill him?_  He swallowed thickly despite himself.  As far as he had known Laine, she had always been laid-back—never taken things too seriously.  When he had threatened to murder anyone in particular, she had always—in her own seductive way—managed to soothe him into forgetting the situation.  Despite her rough and tumble attitude Dally knew Laine'd always hated confrontation.  So naturally, hearing her voice, cold and callous, insinuate that she wanted a man killed, was disconcerting.  

Dallas broke suddenly from his train of thought.  He wondered briefly whether Tim would actually concede to killing a man from his own gang.  Granted, all Greasers—especially those under Tim—had been labeled as being treacherous and disloyal, but there were certain lines that just couldn't be crossed.  Besides, Tim had been getting a lot of crap from his gang lately.  They were all bothered by the fact that they hadn't been getting much fighting done, and that Tim was letting the Soc's enter farther and farther into their territory.  It really was only a matter of time before he was overthrown—if that was the adequate word for it.  Killing  one from his own gang could go both ways for him.  It could serve to remind the others he was leader and had ultimate authority, or could backfire and cause them to rebel _against_ him.  

"Doll—" Dally began, trying to quell his temper before it got the better of him when he caught the impatient roll of Laine's eyes.  

"What, _Dally_?"

"Tim ain't gonna be able to do that."

Laine quickly seemed to forgo her unease for exasperation.  "An' why not?"

"'Cause Mark's from his gang.  He ain't gonna kill 'em off like it was nothin'."

"I would…"

Before Dally could bite his lip, he made his irritation known, "Stop puttin' the blame on other people, Laine.  Glory, doll!  It ain't as if Tim told ya to go to that party, so it ain't like he's responsible for what Mark did.  Shit happens, Laine—and yea, it might've happened to you tonight, but that ain't mean no other Greaser ain't never done it before.  I know at least 10 of 'em from Tim's—two of 'em are _Pony's_ age, for god's sakes!  No one ain't gonna give a damn, doll—no one's gonna kill 'em for you—cause that means the electric chair if they're caught. "

"Then I'll kill 'em, Dallas—I ain't…I ain't never been afraid of nothin' an'…I…"

The towheaded blond remained silent as he waited for her to finish her sentence.  "…I just ain't never wanna see 'im again, Dallas—'cause I ain't afraid of nothin' but him."

"Doll…"

Dally sighed despite himself.  He couldn't deal with how Laine was acting—she was supposed to be tough, sarcastic—never vulnerable.  He didn't like seeing her as she was now.  But that was only part of what bothered him.  The truth was, Dally was feeling more uncomfortable with the fact that the entire situation was irking him so much.  Normally, he wouldn't have given two cents about what occurred that night; hell, if Sylvia—his closest girlfriend before Laine—was ever in that situation, and he had somehow managed to save her, he wouldn't have ever wanted to see her again.  He would have called her a whore—said she deserved what happened…but he never would've carried her to his room, undressed, and later bathed her—he never would've comforted her.

Dally knew his behavior was odd, and it irritated the hell out of him, but at the same time, he couldn't imagine being any other way with Laine.  Frankly, all he'd ever done with her before had been to fool around, and even then, she had been a completely different person—always in control.  Dally smirked absently.  Johnny's cousin was most definitely an impressive lover.  But still…

"Laine?"

The young girl lifted her gaze at the call of her name.  

"Are you okay?"

A slight nod.  A pause, and then…

"No."

_No?_

"Did he hurt you?"  Laine blinked blankly at the inquiry.  Dallas had never been particularly concerned about her well-being.  At the same time, the towheaded Greaser seemed to be having a similar reaction at his own outburst.

"No."

"Then what?"

Pausing, Laine shook her head slowly.  She didn't know what was wrong; she couldn't explain the feeling to Dally…she couldn't explain what she was feeling herself.  Biting her lip, Laine shifted in the tub, warm water lapping at her neck in waves as she did so.  

Aggravated at her silence, Dallas stood abruptly and let out an annoyed sigh.  He was like that, his temper always got the better of him.  Usually, however, Laine would give a sharp remark to shut him up, and that would be enough for him to go seethe in a corner.  Not today, though, and her lack or sarcasm was bothering him beyond words.  "Don't go."

Dally considered the request.  "I ain't got nothin' to do here, doll."

Troubled at his response, Laine remained silent as she unsteadily reached for a bar of soap that lay a few inches out of her grasp.  She could have asked him to hand it to her; but she didn't want to look at him.  Not when he was so bent on hurting her with his words.  Not when he had seen her in such a weak moment…Try as she might, however, Laine wasn't one able to defy the laws of physics, and felt the tears begin to sting at her eyes when she couldn't reach.  

The young greaser, who had stopped in his tracks when his comment had received no reaction, followed her fixated gaze to a bar of soap that rested a few inches from his hands.  Frowning, he easily retrieved it, extending his hands towards her, waiting for her to take the soap.  However, much to his surprise, the moment he made the motion of handing it to her, she let out an aggravated shriek, "I ain't need you to get it for me, Dallas!"

Dally paused and then, "An' you ain't gotta go screamin' just 'cause I gave you somethin' you couldn't get!"

"Jus' get out, Dallas Winston…Get out!  Get out!  Get out!"

By then, Laine was sloshing around violently in the tub.  She was tired of keeping cool—tired of playing tough, and damn near sick of crying like a helpless child.  She didn't need to be there, brooding and sputtering around like a daddy's girl…Laine belonged outside, with the hoods, the Greasers…

For a _very_ uncharacteristic minute Dally was torn between smacking her senseless and doing what she asked.  And due to the fact that the former had only recently been exercised by another, he very slowly exited the bathroom.  It took all the self control he had—to just walk away, hands up defensively—while she was hollering at him to drop dead and go, 'fuck something that moved.'

(  *  *  *  )

_'Go fuck something that moves…'_

Dally growled to himself as he remembered exactly what it was that Laine had told him to do.  Presently, he was at Jay's, having decided to leave Buck's lest he get an uncontrollable urge to strangle Laine.  For the past hour, he had been pleasantly downing glass after glass of beer, cursing his uncanny tolerance of the substance, when a shaggy mop of curly black hair caught his attention.  _Tim…_

He didn't even need to search out the other youth, for as soon as Tim spotted Dally's one-of-a-kind white blond hair, he made his way over, swaying a bit from side to side.  

"Hey, Dal," the eighteen year old began with a smile, alcohol fogging his brain already.  He looked from side to side exaggeratedly for a moment as if looking for someone before continuing, "Where's Laine?"

At the good-natured inquiry, Dally nearly smothered his glass under his tightening grasp.  Was he _expected_ to be _everywhere_ with Laine?  He didn't particularly like how everyone kept associating them together and referring to them as one unit.  

"Buck's," was all he bothered to say.

Tim nodded absently, almost as if he'd expected the answer.  "Heard ya'll were over at Matthews…why'd ya leave?  Was one helluva party, Curly said…and glory, Dal! Mark came back all bruised and bleedin' you'd've thought he'd been hit by a car.  Said some lousy ass had beat 'im up over a doll…can you believe it, a doll?"

By then, Tim was chuckling with incredulity.  He was all too unaware of Dally's tightening jaw or narrowing eyes.  If looks could kill, Tim would've been—pardon the cliché—dead and buried.  "Dal?  Why are you so quiet?"

Tim had sobered up enough to note his friend wasn't laughing along like he usually did to his morbid jokes.  True, he wasn't particularly gifted in humoring others, but he could usually get a rise or two out of Dally.  Especially if he had been drinking as much as he guessed he had. 

"Bastard,"  Dallas ground out suddenly, making the mistake of not being clear in his insult.  Tim's eyes narrowed almost dangerously.  _What?_  

"What the hell, Dally?  I ain't do nothin' for you to—" 

"Mark," the tow-headed youth managed to utter through clenched teeth, his tone unsteady with anger.

"Mark?"  Tim still didn't understand.  What had Mark done?  

Uncertainly, Tim broke into a smirk, "Y'all fought for a doll, then?  You were the Greaser who knocked the shit outta him?  Glory!  Dally, I ain't never known you would—"

"Laine," Dally continued in that same deadly tone, oblivious to anything Tim was saying.  

Laine?  Tim narrowed his eyes cautiously.  He knew Dally enough to know that whenever the latter spoke in monosyllabic phrases and barely bothered to open his mouth—as it almost seemed he preferred to grind each phrase before it left his mouth—he was in a dangerous mood.

"For Laine?"

Dallas nodded jerkily.  The anger that had bubbled down to a simmer after all the drinks he'd downed and the reasoning he'd gone through was shooting up once again, and soon, his blood would be boiling.  

"I ain't gettin' it, Dal."

"Mark and Laine."

"Oh…"  Tim nodded in understanding.  Well that made sense.  Laine was an attractive, feisty little sex kitten—anyone would want to bed her—Mark would've been no exception.  And Mark, though not remarkably striking, _was_ handsome.  He could see how the pair could've gotten together.  However, Tim found it a little unfair that it all be taken out on Mark….Laine was _no_ angel—if they'd been together then it had partially been her fault.

"…But she ain't with you."

Dally practically glared at the remark.  _'But she ain't with you.'_  Tim raised his arms up defensively.  "Ain't that what you said this mornin'?  Said you were tired of her…"

"Fuck off, Tim."

Tim looked genuinely surprised for a moment, but covered up for it easily enough.  A lot of people, excluding Dallas and Laine, found him a thoughtless, cold bastard; he liked to think of himself differently.  Granted, he wasn't a benevolent St. Francis, but he _was_ loyal when he needed to be, and liked to be thought of as an otherwise approachable person.   Yeah, right.  "Fuck off, Dally."

"You know, that insult really ain't hurt when you say my name like it was some Disney character."

Tim paused in his internal ranting for a moment.  Glory but Dally had a habit of going off on tangents.  Where did he get off talking about Walt Disney when moments ago he had been insulting his pride.  "Fuck off, _Dallas._"

"Better, Tim—real good," came the sarcastic reply.  Dally knew it was unfair to take out his anger on Tim, but knew at the same time that when it was all over, Tim'd beat him up enough for it.  Besides, he was gonna cool off soon, and then he'd let Tim know what was going on.

"Listen, _Dallas,_ quit your whinin' and get on with it…so Laine slept with Mark—ain't nothin' new…you slept with Sylvia didn't you?"

Dally's fingertips were itching to hit something.  Or someone.  He didn't need to be reminded of what had happened with pug-face at that exact moment.  Tim didn't seem to be getting the picture of what had really gone on, anyway.  

"He _raped_ her."

"Who, Sylvia?"

Dally was near losing his mind.  What the hell did Sylvia have to do with the entire situation?  "Laine—" he griped in pure annoyance, cradling his forehead with both hands, "Laine…L…A…I…N…E…"

Tim opened his mouth then closed it just as fast. _ Laine…?_

"Are you sure…?"

"I was there—he was _over_ her, lickin' her…touchin' her—"

"And…?"

_And?_

"Dally, I ain't gettin' it…what's the problem?"

_Huh?_

"I mean, glory—she ain't no worry to you…she ain't even _with_ you anymore.  And so what if she is?  She must've asked for it, what with—"

Tim didn't have time to finish the sentence, as Dally's first contacted starkly against his cheek before he could react.  "Fuck it, Dallas, _what now?_"

Despite all the reputation he had to protect, Tim was hesitant to strike Dally back.  Anyone else, and he would've socked him without thinking…but not Dallas—he just couldn't hit him.  "She's got bruises all over—she can't see nuthin' from one eye…Tim, this ain't like he took advantage of her or nothin' like that…he hit her—he _bit_ her places…it ain't like it was just a quick thing; he ain't just go for it…he _hurt_ her—"

Tim was trying rather hard to identify with Dallas and with the repulsion the latter was feeling, but found that it just wasn't very striking to him…and why should it be?  Dally knew better than anyone that broads in Greaser territory were useful only for that one thing…hell, Dally'd been one of the greater advocates of 'use 'em and leave 'em' up until that moment.  Why the change _now_?

"Glory, Tim—Angela…see her lyin' on the floor with nothin' on, crying her eyes out, her skin all purple and blood on her face…and see her try to fight some man who she ain't never gonna be able to kick off—see it, Tim?  That was Laine…" 

 That did it…if it hadn't been the mental picture Dally had drawn for him, the idea of the same thing happening to Angela had been enough to trigger remorse in him for his recent comments.  He didn't even want to _think_ about the possibility of it happening to his sarcastic little sister…

"She's at Buck's?"

A slight nod.  Then a frown.  "She told me to go fuck somethin' than moved."

            **Comments**

…well…Dally _may_ be a bit OOC, my apologies if he is, and yea, I know the sequences where sort of iffy…hope you liked though!

            __


	8. Thoughts of Him

Thoughts of Him—Chapter 8 

Laine had finished her bath a few hours ago and was now curled up in Dallas' bed, shivering slightly at the breeze that filtered through an open window.  She didn't quite feel like standing up and closing it, so she'd settled for freezing instead.  

She was feeling remarkably composed given what had happened, but by then, all sensation had numbed out.  Laine was only mildly aware of her surroundings, or of the pain that throbbed painfully against her cheek…she was too out of it to care.  What she _did_ wonder was where Dally had gone off to.  The more she thought about things, the more remorseful she felt about having kicked and screamed at him to leave.  

It wasn't as if she'd _told_ him she needed the help…

Besides, she was a strong woman.  

_Apparently not strong enough_ …

Laine laughed a bit morbidly at her brooding thought.  Nope, definitely not strong enough.  Absently, she shifted against the mattress, tugging the covers tighter about her body, and drew in a lazy breath.  Glory, but did the place exude Dallas!  Apart from his personal scent, a scan about the room practically shrieked, '_My name is Dallas Winston, and I'm a north-side Greaser!'_

"Sure smokes a lot," she noted, closing her eyes at the smoky smell that filled the room.  Then again, all of them smoked.  Except for her.  She really didn't like it.  Hell, she didn't like the way the stuff tasted against her tongue.  It was so…bitter.  But Dally loved it.  If there was a moment he wasn't smoking, then he was either too busy flirting, or he was eating.  

Laine tossed and stifled a tired yawn, stretching out comfortably before coiling back into herself.  Nuzzling her face into a smooth pillow, the young girl felt her eyes begin to tiredly droop.

And then, the door was thrown open.  Startled, Laine bolted up in bed, eyes frantically searching the room until they alighted against a slim figure standing beside the open door.  She narrowed her eyes hopelessly, lost as to whom it might be, and knowing only that it _wasn't_ Dallas.  

"Hey there, greaser," came a smooth seductive voice, its high pitch telling her that it was a woman.  Laine opened her mouth, then closed it just as quickly, wondering what exactly she would've said.  

The woman easily reached for the door, shoving it closed with a bang and leaving the room bathed in darkness.  "C'mon now…why ain't you up yet?"

By then, Laine was a bit curious as to who it was, and about why she was in Dally's room at such an ungodly hour.  She felt her lips curl into an amused smile.  She _had_ doubted he had been idle while she'd been at that party…

Though she couldn't very well see through the inky blackness, Laine's senses told her that the figure was rapidly approaching.  She still wasn't sure what to expect, so when two feminine arms came abruptly about her waist, Laine's eyes widened and she let out a shrieking string of obscenities.  

Almost as quickly as the fingertips had tightened around her hips, they disappeared.  The weight that had settled on the bed lifted, and a few seconds later the lights were flipped on.  

Laine, eyes unadjusted to the light, closed them tightly and lifted an arm over her face.  She would've been fine to stay that way, had not an audible gasp broken the silence.  Leisurely, she fluttered her eyelids open, and came face to face with…

"Sylvia?"  

She was incredulous.

"_Laine?!_"

Sylvia's tone, however, was more disbelieving than she would have liked.  Laine raised an eyebrow; what exactly about finding her in Dally's room was so difficult to believe?

"What," Sylvia began shrilly, hastily pulling on a discarded bra, "are _you_ doing in Dally's bed?!"

Laine shrugged, "Sleepin', what'd it look like?"       

Sylvia glared at the other girl in mild irritation.  "Where is he?" she began suspiciously, proceeding to answer her own question by throwing open the bathroom, closet, and cabinet doors.  When she didn't find him, she dropped on all fours and shoved her head determinately beneath the bed on which Laine lay.  

Again, Laine shrugged, "Guess I left him too hot for bed…must be out takin' some air."

"Shut ya're trap.  Where is he?"

"Really wanna know?"  Laine smirked at the looks Sylvia was suddenly throwing her.  Murderous glances, suspicious glares…

The girl nodded.  

"See,"  Laine began conspiratorily, drawing the blankets about her as if she were nude, "Dallas and I were you know?…yea, and, he didn't have any—and I ain't gettin' my pills 'til Monday…and, well you know how it goes, Sylvia."

Sylvia's cheeks were reddening with anger.  "Y'all better stay away from 'im, Laine.  He ain't yours."

Though her tone was warning, Laine carelessly tossed her hair behind her shoulder, "So?  I ain't say he was mine.  Don't need to be mine for us to do what we do.  You should know that, doll."

"Don't mess with, Dally.  I'm _warning_ you, Laine.  And how'd you get all those bruises, anyway?"  Sylvia pondered for a moment before smugly finishing, "Dally must be gettin' tired of you if he's willin' to hit you."

At the ridiculous notion of allowing herself to be willingly hit by a man, Laine countered stealthily, "If you're all that interested, I got in a fight with Angela—hear?"

Sylvia allowed a cocky expression to invade her face.  She didn't believe that for a second.  "Shepard?  Ain't you a little too old to be playin' games with a child like that?"

Laine was starting to lose her patience.  Standing angrily, she kicked away the bed's covers and raised an index finger threateningly, "Look, _doll_, I ain't know what you want, but I ain't in the mood for findin' out.  Get out—or get _kicked_ out."

Sylvia chuckled amusedly at the thin, small-framed teen before her.  

"I ain't think you understood—" the tow-head continued, disregarding Sylvia's laughter completely, "I _ain't_ from Tulsa, and I _ain't_ a giggly, pushover greaser, hear?  If you provoke me, I ain't jus' gonna talk big and try an' intimidate.  If you provoke me, first thing in your face is gonna be a fist.  An' I don't mean fist-fightin' either.  I mean kickin' and punchin' fighting.  So, again, _get out_ or _get kicked out_."

If she had thought Laine's earlier remark was an act, Sylvia's resolve was quickly fading.  What if she _really_ had gotten into a fight with Angela?  Well, it wasn't completely unheard of coming from her.  Only a couple months ago, when Laine had first arrived, talk had been that she had drawn a blade on a Socie that had tried to pull a move on Dallas.  Sylvia bit her lip.

"I ain't up to fightin' you, Laine.  Just tell me where Dally's at."

"I told you, I don't know where _Dallas_ is at.  Get it through you _thick_, _black_-_rooted_ head."  For emphasis, Laine tapped Sylvia's yellowish blonde hair with each syllable.

"This ain't over, Laine."

"I ain't say it was," the girl grumbled after Sylvia had exited, making sure to slam the door behind her.  

Glory, but the day was turning out to be one of the worse she'd ever lived…

(   *    *    *   )

"Doll?"

Laine let out a half-hearted growl.  What _now?_

This time, another voice called out curiously, "Laine?"

Daring to let one bright blue eye shift open, Laine was glad to note that whoever had entered had at least left the lights off.  

_Click._

Spoke too soon…

"Glory!  Can ya'll jus' turn that thing off!?"

Another second and the lights flicked off again. 

Turning toward the voices, she spared them a glance.  She knew one was Dallas by the voice, but she had a more difficult time placing the other.  And what the hell was Dally doing, bringing a friend along to visit in the _middle_ of the night?!

"Tim's here, doll."

_Tim?_

"Forget it, Dallas, just turn on the lights."

Laine sat up slowly and pushed platinum hair behind her ears.  "Hey, doll—"

Laine nodded her greeting to Tim before glancing questioningly at Dally.  But before she had a chance to even ask what was going on, Tim had continued, "Dal says you want somethin' settled with Mark."

_What?_  Surprised, Laine searched for Dally's eyes somewhat hesitantly.  Hadn't he told her that he wouldn't ask Tim about Mark and that she should just forget about that entire possibility?

"Doll?"  Tim began slowly, pausing at realizing that Laine wasn't listening to what he was saying, but looking rather intently at Dally.  Tim's lips absently twitched upwards.  

Meanwhile, Dally was returning the young girl's gaze with just as much—if not more—intensity.  His ego still felt somewhat bruised, what with her telling him to get out and get it on with anything that moved, but he could overlook that…somewhat, at least.  The fact was, she was looking at him _like that_ again.  With that look that said she wanted him to be closer-to be holding her, yet, at the same time he knew that after what had happened that night, the chances of his getting laid where slim to none.  What he _should've_ done was go bed the first thing that hit his sight after having left; what he _should've _done was to have completely ignored the situation, and gone off to fool around with that girl he'd been with when he'd walked in on Laine and Mark.  But he hadn't, and, much to his chagrin, he didn't have any particular urge to go and—as she had suggested—'get some.'

"I thought I told you to go get—"

"I met Tim," Dally interrupted, daring her to finish the sentence with Tim present.  He _may_ have been a bit uncharacteristic with her that night, but that didn't mean—by _any_ means—that he was going to let her completely twist him around her little finger.  

"Oh?"  Laine countered just as easily, raising an interested eyebrow, "I see you took my advice on taking advantage of anything that moved."

For a moment, Dally's cheeks burned red at the implications in her statement, but he brushed it off effortlessly as he motioned towards Tim, "Wants to know what you want."

Laine shrugged.  "Its simple, ain't it?  Beat him up some."

"That's it?" came the tow-head's inquiry, cautious at remembering that she had suggested murder earlier that evening.

"If you want to go do somethin' more, it ain't my problem.  Jus' beat him up real good.  Knock out some teeth outta his cocky little mouth."

Tim grinned.  He liked that proposition.  "Do you wanna be there?" he questioned then, running a mental check of Mark's normal hangouts while running a careless hand through his hair.  

"No."

Tim nodded.  "All right then, doll."

Then, turning towards Dallas, the young man raised a hand in farewell and disappeared.

The moment the Shepard gang leader exited the room, Laine voiced her curiosities.  "I thought you said he wasn't gonna be able to get the gang to do it—"

"He ain't," Dally said simply, peeling the white tee-shirt he wore off his back.

"Then?" 

Laine bit her lip absently as her eyes raked over the boy's naked torso.  She saw Dally's shoulders rise and fall in a detached shrug.

"Jus' Tim and me, doll."

Laine's eyebrows knitted together in thought, "You said you weren't going to.  'Sides, you said you'd get the electric chair for it."

"Laine," Dally began with a bemused smirk,  "I ain't never say I wasn't gonna do it.  An' I said you'd get it if you killed 'im.  We ain't gonna kill him.  At least, I ain't think we will."

Truth was, Dallas wasn't sure whether he'd be able to hold back murderous thoughts when he came face to face with Mark.  That was what Tim was going to be there for, to hold him back if things got out of hand, and, of course, to help shake him up a bit more.  Dally on his own was intimidating enough, when coupled with Tim Shepard, everyone practically opened way for them.  He smiled bitterly at the simple idea.

"Sylvia came by."

"Sylvia?"

Dally raised interested eyebrows at the pleased look on Laine's face  "What'd you tell her?"

A slight chuckle and then, "That we almost had hot, passionate sex before realizing that you had no condoms."

"Oh yeah?"  he remarked, "Sounds familiar."

When she remained silent, he continued, "So what'd she say?"

"That you belonged to her.  An' then she accused me of stealin' you away.  An' I told her I wasn't interested in her leftovers—"

"I ain't a leftover.  _She_ is a leftover—"

"Yeah, well, whatever, Dallas."

"So anyway," Laine resumed, letting her eyes linger on his lithe form as, having finished undressing, he pulled on a smooth white undershirt and loose boxers.  "She went lookin' for you under the bed and in the bathroom and…"

Dally glanced up briefly as he crawled into bed when he realized she had trailed off, her gaze settling almost uncertainly on his prone form.  "And?"

Laine took in a steadying breath, "and she told me things weren't over."

"That woman.  She's a bit sick in the head."

Laine nodded, "came in here thinkin' I was you.  She was already halfway naked when she realized I wasn't a man."

As she spoke, Dally began to draw her closer, arms easily molding her into his body.  He liked how she felt cuddled against him, supple body warm and silky.  He did, however, note that the embrace was somewhat forced.  She wasn't relaxed at all.  Her back was stiff and she was being particularly careful in shying away from the lower regions of his body.  And her breathing was coming too fast…

"Doll?" he began slowly, fingertips alighting lightly against the plane of her arm and gently running downwards.  Alarmed, Laine jumped at the unexpected touch, a slight trembling beginning in her limbs.  

He was unsettled by her reactions, but said nothing when she pulled away from him, shifting so that the two were facing each other.  

"Don't—"  she warned when she saw his hand extend towards her, biting her lower lip to keep it from shaking.  He nodded his understanding and turned on his side, shifting so that his back was to her, intent on avoiding her gaze.  

Meanwhile, Laine was having a hard time supplying her body with oxygen.  She hated it that he had turned away the way he had, his actions restrained and his eyes hidden from hers.  She didn't want him to act the way he was acting…

Laine kept her eyes glued to her intertwined hands, taking in shuddering breaths to keep from crying.  She felt awful.  She had never willingly nor blatantly denied Dallas the way she had now.  And, she hadn't even been sure of what he wanted; for all she knew, he could've just as easily offered her a kiss and left it at that.  And after he had comforted her all night—

"I…I'm—sorry," the words were barely whispered, yet, from his position, Dally heard them more clearly than he would have liked.  Closing his eyes and trying vainly to ignore Laine's poorly stifled sobs, Dally fell into an uneasy sleep, an increasing dread forming in the pit of his stomach.

The next morning Dally awoke much later than usual.  Detachedly, he picked up the sound of the shower running, and turning on his back, slung a careless arm over his eyes.  He was still half-asleep when he heard the smooth click of the lock and the padding of footsteps just a few minutes later.  His attention having been drawn, he blinked sleep weary eyes in the direction the sound had come from.  

His gaze landed squarely on a towel-clad Laine, tiny droplets of water still clinging possessively to every exposed inch of her body.  Dally felt himself groan inwardly.  Had this been any other time, he would've pounced on her without a second thought, deftly tackling her to the bed until she responded.  But after last night…She had made it clear that any unwanted contact was out of the question.  

His ears picked up a  slight rummaging sound and, wondering what she was looking for, Dally threw his arm off his face and stretched languidly.  He had meant for the sound of his waking to be purposely noisy, that way she would know he was conscious and not shriek or try and hide when she caught his eye.  

"Hey—"

Dally nodded at the greeting, standing sluggishly as he made his way to the bathroom, not once glimpsing in her direction.  "Dallas?"

The young man turned back unsteadily, gripping his dresser for balance, and jerked his head to let her know he was listening.  He stifled a yawn.  "What's wrong?"

"Nothin'."

Laine nodded.  Then, "Look at me—"

Dally lifted his gaze warily and met her eyes.  "About yesterday—" she began, only to be cut off by a rude wave of his hand.  He didn't want to talk about that right then.  

"I'm gonna take a shower, doll."

"But…"

(   *    *    *    )

So…Whadda ya think?  I've got the next part written up, as this chappie and the next were meant to be one big one (made impossible by its ridiculous length when joined).  ^_^


	9. Thoughts of Him II

Chapter 9—Thoughts of Him II

Laine walked down the corner of Smith and Prospect quickly, a slight frown decorating her pouty lips.  She didn't understand why Dallas had been so cold with her that morning; granted, she understood that he had _reason_ to act that way, but she didn't think it'd feel so bad when he did.  

As she walked, hands jammed into the pockets of her shiny jean jacket—which Johnny and the gang had graciously chipped in to buy—a strong arm gently came around her shoulders.  Surprised, she gave a slight jolt and snapped her head to see who had dared place a hand on her.  It was Soda.  

She relaxed marginally against him, smirking a bit at the wide smile on his lips.  "Late this morning, ain't ya?"

Laine gave a nod, wondering why she felt so comfortable in Soda's embrace, yet so vulnerable in Dally's.  Sodapop continued chattering idly, oblivious to her internal rantings, until they reached the Curtis home.  Laine was bewildered at suddenly finding herself in front of the brothers' house.  The last time she'd been there, she and Dally had made a grand scene.  

"Johnnycakes wanted to see you," Soda explained, letting his arm fall to his side as he pushed open the door.  At the comment, Laine felt a wave of remorse wash over her.  She hadn't seen Johnny in over a week.  Ever since…well ever since the young boy had walked in on her and Dallas.  

"Hey Laine!"

"Mornin', doll."

"Hey!"

Laine gave a small smile to Johnny, Ponyboy, and Steve who were all gathered at the dining room table, playing what seemed to be poker.  She sat down uneasily beside Steve, watching Soda take an empty seat next to his brother.  "So, Laine—how you been?"

That was Steve, and for a moment, she wasn't sure how to respond.  Laine hadn't ever really bothered befriending any of the Curtises or their friends.  She had always felt she fit in with a rowdier crowd; with Dallas—Tim, hell, even Angela.  "Great."

Steve nodded that he'd heard, and tossed an ace triumphantly into a pile of cards.  "I win."

Soda shot up indignantly from his chair, "No way, Stevie—there's no way!"

      Steve held up two defensive hands, "Read 'em and weep, Sodapop."

      "Aw, Ya'll are awful hosts, you know?"  Pony began, rising somewhat sluggishly from his chair before turning toward Laine, "Want somethin' to drink?"

      "Beer."

      A few seconds later, Laine was thankful to feel the cool beverage make its way down her throat.  Glory had she missed drinking.  It'd only been a day, but just as well, after her problems with Dally, she figured she needed a few bottles.  

      Steve, amongst his playing, gave a suspicious side-glance in her direction.  She'd nearly downed an entire bottle in only a few swings.  That meant one of either two things:  she had a good head for alcohol, or was an avid drinker.  Based on her history, Steve opted for the latter.  

      "You sure ain't no lightweight," he remarked neutrally, catching the indifferent shrug of her shoulders at the comment.  

      "Been drinkin' a long time."

      Steve perked up at the absently voiced thought.  "Have?"

      Another shrug.  "At least since I was nine.  They always had some bottle lyin' around so I figured I'd jus' try it.  Next thing ya know, I'm a drinker."

      She tipped the bottle playfully in his direction and gave a weary yawn, "Glory am I tired!"

      "You sure look it."

      That had been Sodapop.  "If anything, I'd say you'd gotten in a fight."

      His comment seemed to spark up everyone's curiosity, and, accordingly, they all stared at her uncertainly.  None wanted to ask what had happened lest the response be something they weren't particularly ready to hear.  "Shepard."

      "_Tim?_!"

      Laine chuckled a bit at Ponyboy's outrageous exclamation.  Dallas had been right in saying that the majority of people—Greaser or Soc alike—had an uncanny fear of the Shepard gang and its many associates.  She felt herself smirk.  "Angela, actually."

      "Oh,"  Pony blushed.  Johnny, however, was eyeing her fixatedly from his perch to the left of Ponyboy, eyes slightly narrowed.  

      "What'd y'all fight 'bout, anyway?"

      "Somethin' or other.  Nothin' important.  Jus' Angela bein' Angela."

      Steve sighed almost exaggeratedly.  "Dolls are so difficult, ain't they?"

      Laine raised a finely arched eyebrow, "You think Evie is?"

      A wide smile spread over Steve's smooth lips.  "There _are_ certain benefits, doll."  

      Laine didn't seem very convinced, but she didn't have much time to dwell on that, as a rather hesitant hand came about her shoulder.  "Let's go outside."

      Nodding, though bewildered at her cousin's sudden boldness, Laine followed Johnny out the front door.  

      She waited patiently for him to speak up, and when he didn't, stood up hastily.  She had a certain ill-brained hunch that he hadn't believed much of her 'Angela' story and was waiting to clear things up with her.  "Angela ain't a fighter."

His voice was soft, but clear.  Laine felt her heart stop.

"Yesterday proves that theory wrong.  Said I was stealin' her man."

      "Stop playin', Laine—she would never be fightin' with you, 'cause she knows what you're like."

      Again, Laine was left with nothing to say.  She wouldn't have ever thought Johnny'd known her that well…

      "C'mon, Johnny—ain't you got nothin' else to talk about?"

      "Not if it concerns you and those bruises you got all over you," Johnny deadpanned.  

"Glory, Johnny—I ain't gotta be explainin' myself to you!"

"So you admit it?  It wasn't Angela?"

Laine could feel her resolve steadily oozing away.  "Johnny—"

"An' I know it ain't Dal either, 'cause he would never do somethin' like that."

"Look—Johnny…"

Johnny waved her away, "That night, when you and Dally were together, y'all was different than now.  You're all actin' so weird now.  Always fightin' and if not then you're always talkin' bout how he was with Sylvia or you were with Curly…So what happened now?"

Laine sighed uncharacteristically and turned to leave when her cousin's fingertips tightened about her wrist.  "Not anymore, Laine.  I ain't gonna jus' let you walk outta here like it was nothin' because I'm family—remember?"

"Johnny—jus' don't…"

"No."

      She was losing her patience…and her strength when it came to be questioned about what had happened the night before.  More than anything, though, Laine didn't think she could stand being any more polite than she had already been with Johnny.  

      "Look—"  she began for the second time that day, her acid tone making Johnny wince in surprise, "I don't—"

      "Hey, Johnnycakes!"  Dallas grinned wickedly at the younger teen as he draped a possessive arm over Laine's shoulders.  She stiffened.  Johnny noticed her discomfort.  For all the world knew, Dallas Winston had never once had an argument with Laine, or had never been denied by her…by the way he was acting, it was as though he'd had the best night of his life.  

      "Mornin' Dal."

      "Morning, doll,"  

He glanced at her appreciatively when he spoke, eyes raking over her body like they normally would.  

      "Hey, Dally?"

      Dallas lifted his interested gaze to meet Johnny's determined one.  "Maybe you can help me out, Laine's been tellin' me bout how she got all those bruises an' I ain't liking the story much.  Clear it up?"

      Shrugging, Dally stretched widely and cracked his knuckles, "Angela Shepard.  Was mad at somethin' Laine said."

The young man shook his head with a look of mild anger dancing in his eyes, "Told Tim to tell 'er to clear off."

Though dissatisfied, Johnny understood there was very little he could do; arguing with Dallas was something completely different than arguing with Laine.  Where she was calculating and assertive, Dally was narrow-minded and aggressive.  Nodding, he made his way leisurely back into Pony's house, glancing back at Laine with an unreadable expression in his eyes.  

Once he was out of sight, Laine squirmed from Dally's grip, distaste evident in her features.  "What're you doin' here, Dallas?"

Brow raised, the young man brushed smoothly past her, settling down against the ledge of the porch.  "Doll, ya're too winded up, you know…Curtises are my friends, in case you forgot."

Laine felt herself inwardly flinch.  That had been a ridiculous slipup.  "Well?"

"Well what?"  Dallas retorted.

Laine rolled her eyes.  "You ain't never go nowhere without a reason, Dallas."

Deciding she had been right, he continued.  "I was goin' to the store.  Wonderin' if there was somethin' you needed."

Going to the store?  That usually implied he was going on one of his many shoplifting sprees.  Smirking, Laine placed an indolent hand and her waist.  She also knew that he wasn't one to ask if anyone needed something, either.  "Along what lines?"

Lifting two hands in accompaniment with an innocent crane of the head, he fixed a stare on her.  _You know what I mean_, his eyes seemed to say.  Laine felt the skin along the back of her neck begin to prickle.  _Oh…_

"No…Nothin'"

He frowned.  "You ain't been takin' no pills, doll."

Laine looked away.  "Ain't been havin' a reason to."

His frown deepened.  "So you ain't want me to bring nothin' for you?"

A slight shake of the head, a pause…

"Jus'…I don't know—you figure it out, Dal."

At her final comment, he began to eye her warily.  "Buck's got a spare room."  His words were low.  Quiet.  Final.  _A spare room_.  Was he kicking her out?

"So, I figured there ain't no point in…"  not sure he wanted to finish, Dallas glanced up reluctantly, gauging her reaction.  Laine simple stared at him, waiting for him to finish.  _No point in what…?_

"Hey Dally!" 

Dallas spun on his heels and glared at the interrupting Sodapop.

(   *      *      *   )

"Ain't it make sense to you?"

Laine remained quiet.  "I mean, Glory, doll—you start cryin' every time I touch you even if its jus' to tell you to look at me.  I ain't sure I can stand that all the time; especially not when you're okay when everyone else does it!"

She opened her mouth to complain, but was stopped by his rambling, "I ain't see you start to blubber when Soda get all comfortable with you—if anythin' you're all relaxed.  An' if I even _look_ in your direction you start puttin' on all these clothes or pullin' up sheets around you like I was gonna jump you…"

"Glory, doll!  You ain't expect me to jus' watch that?!"

Biting her lower lip, Laine blindly eased herself from the edge of Dally's bed, shakily making her way toward the open window.  She pressed a hot forehead against the cooling surface of the glass.  "I hate that I ain't able to touch you."

Laine closed her eyes and drew in a shaky breath.  Not now…Glory don't let him start now…

"…how many times have you pushed  me away since then?  You can be the most confident person alive, but doll—gettin' refused like that…it only gets so far.  I ain't sure I like knowin' you ain't wanna be with me."

"It ain't like that!"  Laine cried out indignantly, idly fisting the curtain's fabric.

"Then what?"  Dallas' own voice was rising dangerously, his eyes flashing with an unreadable expression.  

"It ain't that…"  her voice fell to a mere whisper, "I…I want to be with you—I jus'…I ain't—I want to feel you…"

"Then what?" the towhead tried again, this time more softly, arms coming possessively about Laine.  

"Every time you touch me…I think about _him._"

Dally sighed and dropped his embrace.

"But its different with everyone else.  Soda and Steve and them…it ain't like that—I feel all right when it's them.  But you—every time its you I jus' can't stand it…"

      Dally remained silent.  "Glory knows I think about it!  Me an' you…"

      "Can I just…"

      Laine blinked red rimmed eyes at him.  "Jus' kiss you?"

      In response, Laine let her eyes flutter close, heart pounding feverishly against her chest when she felt the boy's breath land tenderly against her chin.  _Don't think…_ she reminded herself, drawing in a ragged breath, tears beginning anew as a sudden memory permeated her senses.  Soft lips flitted softly against the corners of her mouth, its touch tantalizingly slow.  Dally pressed quick pecks all over her lips, not bothering to deepen the kiss much, and pulled away after much contemplation.  He managed a strained version of his usual impish smirk.  Then, however, he caught the tears running down the girl's cheeks and his brows knitted together.  

      "Kiss me harder."

      Laine's request had been more of a command, and Dally, still bewildered, hesitated before lowering his lips to hers once more.  He intensified the kiss accordingly, arms coming tightly about Laine's waist, crushing her unconsciously to his body, relishing the feel of her body once more pressed against him.  

      And then, it started.  Almost as suddenly as she had succumbed to his kisses, the memory of what had began with such fled back to her, and Laine was struck in the face with the recollection of what had occurred a little over a week ago.  __

_      "I like it when it hurts.  Dig, baby?"_

Laine remembered constraining arms, just like the ones that held her strongly in place.  She writhed around frantically against Dallas.

_"And if ya're gonna talk—it better be cause ya're screamin' in pain."_

A hard chest and a stifling aroma…she could almost smell it.  She couldn't breathe…

      Tears flowing uncontrollably down her cheeks, Laine pushed Dallas roughly away by the shoulders        , her eyes wide with fright. 

      The young man, sprawled at the ground as a result of her unexpected push, eyed her bewilderedly from his position on the floor, taking in the shaking frame and shuddering breaths.  Her expression was positively terror-struck.          She was looking at him with a mixed expression: one of absolute fear, and the other of slight remorse, but Dally couldn't get over the fear glistening in her teary eyes…he couldn't get over it.

      As he stood, Dally took in the sight of Laine backing away from him, bright blue orbs darting frantically across the room.  The thought struck Dallas immediately and left him dumbfounded.  She was scared of him.  

      Brows knitted together, he took a step back, raising his arms defensively and was about to turn to exit, when Laine's arms came desperately about his waist.  She was so much smaller than he was, that when she did so, Dally could feel her cheek pressed up against the middle of his back.  So small…

      "Don't go," came the terrified request.  Dallas could feel the quivering of her lips against his back.  It was one of the most unnerving things of his life.

      He turned around.  "Please don't go…"

      Dally didn't think he could ever have denied her anything with the look of utter despair present on her face.  Instead, he enveloped her in a forlorn hug, forehead creased with concern.  After a few seconds, when Laine didn't pull away, he hesitantly pushed her away.  She glanced at him despondently for a few seconds, her lower lip beginning to tremble once more at the thought that he would leave.  But he wasn't going to, he just wanted to make sure she was all right.  

      She offered him a timid smile—perhaps the first one he'd seen coming from her—and buried herself in his arms, tone almost child-like in its innocence.  "I'll go get some from the doctor soon, okay?"

Dally felt a cold weight settle in the pit of his stomach.  Somehow, after what he'd just witnessed, Laine going out and buying contraception pills didn't quite seem like the thing to do.  Moreover, Dally wasn't sure he was ready to be with her again…not when she was still so very afraid of his touch.  It wouldn't be right.  And he knew she would only be doing it for him—only because she thought he would leave if she didn't.  He shook his head no.  Laine eyed him curiously from beneath a fringe of wheat bangs.

"I thought you—"

Dallas shook his head once more.  Laine seemed confused.  "But—"

"You don't want to."

The words were blunt, yet sensitive in that rough way Dally always managed.  Laine mustered a fleeting imitation of her usual seductive smirk, "Yea, I do.  An' you do, too."

She advanced on him, raising a soft hand to his cheek, but the young man pulled away.  Eyes fixed on the floor, he continued, "No…you don't—you were jus' cryin' now…an' if I take advantage of you like that—then I ain't no better than Mark…And you jus' said it yourself.  Whenever I touch you, you think of _him._"


	10. Ain't that right, Dally?

Chapter 10—Ain't that Right, Dal?

She stayed up the entire night thinking about what he'd said.  She didn't like it.

      Laine heaved a sigh and turned wearily on her side.  At the moment, she was uncomfortably curled up beside her cousin, having decided that rooming with Dally really wasn't the best thing to do.  Blinking a few times in the darkness, Laine let her eyes absently roll over Johnny's small frame.  

      She often forgot he was older than she was, and that, as such, he would try and protect her regardless of the situation.  Laine smiled bitterly at the thought.  That was another reason why she'd decided to avoid Dallas for a while.  She didn't want him to be at war with his protégé; and she most certainly didn't want Johnny harboring any bad feelings for the tow-head, either.  _How considerate._

      A loud thud suddenly broke through the silence, distracting Laine from her thoughts and waking Johnny.  She was in the dark as to what could be happening, but Johnny seemed to know, as he let out an irritated growl.  "Johnny!"

      Laine locked eyes with her cousin and immediately saw the fear beneath his annoyed expression.  It was her uncle, and if she knew anything, it was that he was dead drunk.  

      "C'mon," that was Johnny.  He made a quick gesture to his lips that signaled for her to remain quiet. 

      "Johnny!!"

      "Glory, pop—hold on a minute!"

      Laine, for a minute, was surprised at her cousin's bold and exasperated tone towards his father.  She _knew_ the man was an alcoholic, and knew rather well that he had a habit of beating Johnny to pieces whenever he had the chance, but she'd have never taken Johnny as having even a measure of attitude towards the man…

      "He won't make it in here for a while," he assured her, glancing back warily at the closed door.  Laine nodded, rubbing her bruised shoulder as she stifled a small yawn.  Johnny caught the movement and narrowed his eyes, but said nothing.

      "Climb out through the window."

      "The window?"

      Johnny nodded and grunted a little as he pushed the rackety sill upwards.  It was wide enough to allow them exit.  He motioned for her to go first.  Laine hesitated.  "Go on, I'll be fine."

      Offering her cousin a sincere grin, she jumped out the window and into the dark night, not once looking back—even as she heard the glass shatter…Not once did she look back.

   *    *    *   

      Dally shifted in bed.  Glory but was he having a hard time getting to sleep.  It couldn't have been later than two in the morning, either.  He growled and glared at the door to the far left side of his room, daring it to open so he'd be able to unleash his wrath on someone.  _Anyone_.  Granted he was hoping for that anyone to be Laine, but at that point, he wasn't being particular about it.  

      Turning over on his stomach, he mulled over the options open to him.  He could go out and to Buck's, but he wasn't in the mood to listen to the man's loud, tacky saloon music.  And the Dingo was closed.  He _could_ go to Tim's, but he wasn't keen on running into Curly either.  He still harbored murderous feelings for the teen.  Dally sat up in bed and stretched uncomfortably.  

      An hour later, Dally found himself dressed in his sneakers, jeans, and worn leather jacket, walking towards Jay's.  The place was closed, but unlike the Dingo, fostered a nightlife worthy of making the worst of broads turn their heads in shame.  Only the crudest and hardest of hoods gathered there; and of course, that included him.

      Dally scanned the place swiftly, searching for Tim's tell-tale black locks.  He didn't find them, which was just as well, since he hadn't expected for the youth to be there anyway.  What he _was_ surprised to see, however, was the thin form of Angela Shepard, pushing through the crowd to get to him.  

      "Hey, doll," he began with a nod, not letting his gaze linger on her too long, lest she go telling Tim some warped version of their encounter. 

      She nodded and jerked her head to the area behind her, "Fight broke out.  Curly got his ass kicked by some Socie who was stupid enough to come here."

      Dally raised an incredulous eyebrow, "A Socie?"  

      Angela nodded.  "Somethin' like that—it wouldn't've been a problem 'cept he had a heater on 'im.  Almost blew Curly to New York,"—Angela paused a moment and smiled at her own rough joke, then eyed him warily when she remembered he was a New Yorker.

      "And?" 

      "And?  Soda saved Curly's ass, is what."

      For a moment, Dallas was taken aback, and then, "What the fuck was Soda doin' here tonight?"

      It wasn't customary for the handsome Curtis brother to be anywhere _that_ decidedly dangerous.  He was a greaser, yes, and that usually implied he was involved in some measure of risky business, but he had never—to Dally's knowledge—purposely gone to place known for its rough-and-tumble crowd.  Especially not without the gang.  "Was he alone?"

      Angela shook her head no and absently twirled a strand of dark black hair between her fingertips, "Was here with Sandy."

      _Ah…_  Dally nodded.  He'd have expected that.  "Then what?"

      The youngest of the Shepards heaved an exasperated sigh.  She wasn't one for patient explanations.  "Soc started flirtin' with Sandy and she ain't one to turn that down."

      Again, Dally was slightly surprised, though he didn't let it show.  He'd known Sandy well enough, and she had always seemed sincere  to him.  She hadn't seemed like Sylvia at all.  What Sandy had done that night—that was the sort of thing broads like Sylvia did.

      "An' you know Curly.  Got it in 'is head that a Socie stealin' a Greaser broad was enough for him to start somethin.'"

      "What about Sodapop?"

      "He wasn't there.  He'd been gettin' them somethin' to drink.  Sandy got all sexy all of a sudden.  As if Soda wasn't even alive.  When he came back, Curly was already hittin' the Soc.  Soda got in to separate…and then the guy pulls his heater out."

      Dally remained quiet.  The sudden revelation of Sodapop having been in danger was a little out of the ordinary.  There was no one on Greaser territory that didn't like Soda.  They all respected him well enough, and while he wasn't the rough type, no one messed with him.  He felt his regular smirk threatening to return at the thought of what greaser broads would do to Sally once they found out what she'd done to him.  Every broad—whether they dug him or not—admitted that Sodapop Curtis had a full package as far as looks were concerned.  Dally?  He was more attitude than anything else.

      "Y'know how this crowd is.  They all started rootin' for Sodapop—and a couple hopped in to help, but it ain't fair when a Socie pulls a gun on you."  

      Dally nodded.  No, it wasn't fair, though he couldn't say he'd never done that before.  "So they wrestle with it—and Soda gets clipped."

      Dallas raised an eyebrow.  Clipped?  Knowing the messes her brothers were often in, 'clipped' for Angela usually meant hit.  "Where?"

      Angela raised a ringed finger to her ear.  "Took 'im to the hospital."

      Dally was momentarily agitated with Angela's lack of foresight.  She could have said that to him right off instead of going through the whole story.  Still, he couldn't go brushing her off just yet.  He had to find out where Sodapop was.

      "He ain't at Vincent De Paul, is he?"  Angela gave a smooth shake of the head, the dark, curly locks reminiscent of both her brothers.  

      "No.  Darry was real worried 'bout him.  Took 'im to that Socie hospital—"

      The moment the words escaped Angela's mouth, Dally took off in a dead run.  Sodapop Curtis had, since his childhood years, always—for whatever injury—been treated at Vincent De Paul's.  If he wasn't there now…well, glory—that meant something else had happened.  

      "Real nice, Dally!"  

      He ignored Angela's dry remark and instead scanned the crowd hastily for anyone he knew.  _Anyone._  His eye caught on a fringe of jet-black hair.  Cocking his head absently to the side, he wondered briefly how he could've missed it before.  Then, jogging down quickly, he wrapped a strong arm about a young man's neck and dragged him off toward the parking lot.  "Keys,"  was all he bothered sneering.  

      His actions, of course, were rewarded with a fair punch from the unyielding Greaser he had so unceremoniously pulled away.  Glaring, he wiped his lip with his forearm.  "Nice one, Tim."

      The other Greaser—who hadn't really seen his captor—smirked and leaned back cockily when he took note of who it had been.  "Good to see you, Dal."

      "Shut up, already."

      "Be glad too."

      Tim jerked his head toward Jay's.  "Heard what happened?"

      Dally gave a nod.  He hadn't expected Tim to be all that sympathetic about Soda.  He didn't know him.  He was ticked, no doubt, that a Socie had dared walk into _their_ territory and shoot down a Greaser, and he was probably bothered at it having been Soda, but more likely than not, it was all the same to Tim.  "When'd you get here anyway?"

      Tim shrugged a little.  And then,  "Angela."

      _Oh.  _Ever since Tim had heard what had happened to Laine, he'd been all the more protective of his sister.  This of course, merited a good teasing later.  Right now, there were more important things to account for.  "Take me to that Socie hospital."

      Tim rolled his eyes.  Glory did Dally have a way with words.  _Take me_.  _Give me_.  _Buy me._  Tim was starting to feel like Dallas' personal chauffer.  He did, however, give a conceding wave towards his T-Bird.  "Hop in."

(    *     *     *   )

      "Nothing to worry about, young man.  He should be perfectly fine in a few days.  You will, however, have a difficult time explaining the circumstances to that police officer over there."

      Darry spared the uniformed man to his right a weary glance.  If things went the way the doctor was suggesting they would, Soda would be out of the hospital in a week.  When that happened, however, he'd probably end up in court, debating whether Darry was a good enough guardian.  First it had been the entire issue with Pony, and now, Sodapop had been shot.  He doubted very much that the juvenile court would deem him a trustworthy and responsible parent.  Darry sighed and rubbed his temples.  He'd deal with that later.  Now, all he cared about was his kid brother.  

      "I do want him back here after two months—just to check him out.  A routine, around here, nothing serious."

      Darry felt himself numbly nod.  As much as he felt he had to listen to the doctor talk, his eyes drifted of their own accord, landing on the sleeping form of his youngest brother.  His gaze softened.  It was getting harder to keep them safe.  The lot of them, he added absently, taking in the sight of the rest of his gang nodding off here and there.  Steve and Johnny and Two-Bit…Darry's eyes narrowed slightly as he realized one was missing.  _Dallas…_

      That boy.  Darry heaved a sigh.  He was awful hard to keep track off.  The fact that he refused to be cared for didn't help things, either.  At least Laine was there to keep an eye on him.  Not much to go by, that was for sure, but at least Dally wouldn't be as suicidal with himself anymore.  

      Just as that particular thought coursed through his mind, the doors to the waiting room burst open, and a breathless looking Dallas pushed himself through.  Behind him, a more composed Tim entered, smirking slightly at his friend's uncharacteristic awkwardness.  Upon catching Darry's eye, both boys nodded, the latter with more respect than the former.  

      Dallas turned and gave a similar nod to the rest of the gang.  Johnny smiled back weakly and glanced around but said nothing.  Then, he approached Darry.  "How is he?"

      Darry sighed and shrugged.  "Doctor said he'll be fine.  Then we've got to deal with the fuzz about this whole thing."

      "The fuzz?"

      "About foster homes."

      Dally's eyes widened marginally.  He hesitated from formulating his next words.  "An' how's that gonna come out?"

      Darry shrugged again.  "Don't know."

      "It ain't really a problem, though," Tim inputted.  At Darry's murderous glare, he continued, "If things do get that bad….all you've got to do is get out of Tulsa.  They ain't as concerned 'bout us Greasers as to chase us over the country."  

      When Darry didn't seem convinced, Tim nudged Dally's ribs, "Right, Dal?  Ain't that what you—"

      Tim didn't have much time to finish his sentence, as Dally had swiped him a good one in the ribs.  When Tim's world stopped spinning, he caught Dallas' glare.  _That was a secret_, his eyes seemed to say.  

All this, the other Greasers watched curiously, not really all that aware of what was going on.  Only Darry had heard enough of the conversation to have an inkling of the situation, and even then, it was pretty far-fetched.

      "C'mon y'all,"  that was Johnny, "we ain't need to get kicked out again.  'Sides, Soda's in real bad shape.  It ain't time for this."

      Steve, in particular, shot Dally a meaningful glance.  Last time they'd been there—to bail out Two-Bit and his broken knuckles—Dallas had thought it'd be cool to jump on an unsuspecting Socie.  Needless to say, they'd been 'escorted' out of the hospital and threatened on what would happen should they dare to return.  

      Glaring right back at Steve, Dally flopped down beside Johnny and narrowed his eyes at the newly forming bruise that marred that youth's left cheek.  "Where'd you get that one, huh, Johnnycakes?"

      Across from them, Tim added, "A real shiner, kid."

      Self-consciously, Johnny shrugged, rubbing his cheek absently.  "Where's Laine?"

      Tim brought up his hands to show that he didn't know and glanced at Dallas.  Johnny too looked up at the tow-head sitting beside him.  Dally became a bit exasperated by the looks.  "Don't know.  Doll left this morning.  Ain't seen her since then."

      "She was at my house up 'til a few hours ago.  The old man came back and I ain't want her to get hurt."

      "She'd better not get in any trouble."

      Johnny glanced up curiously at Tim's comment.  "There'll be no one there to bail 'er out."

      "Shoot, if I know Laine like I do, she'll find it even if she ain't looking."

      Dally had no idea how right he was.

*gasp*…What _could_ Dally be right about???

This must be the first cliffhanger I've ever written—and notice it isn't even _that_ much of a cliffhanger.

Tell me what ya think!


	11. I Think

Chapter 11

I think… 

Angela was grinding on Laine's nerves.  Though only two years younger than herself, the only girl of the Shepard household acted as if she were a five-year old.  Granted, Angela had her moments when she spouted off phrases as mature as her brother Tim, but on other occasions rivaled even Margie—Evie's baby sister—in immaturity.  Presently, she was tutoring Laine on the many uses of blood red lipstick.  "An' you can use it for blush 'n as liner an'—"

Momentarily, Laine remembered why she preferred hanging around men to girls.  At least Dallas didn't spend his breath lecturing her on the best colors for her skin.  Laine scoffed.  That boy would sooner admit liking the fuzz than he would show some sort of interest in makeup.  Her lips twitched absently at the idea.  At one point in their relationship, Dally had become quite the joker…and if not the joker, then certainly a tease.

"Where you goin', doll?" 

_Dallas had raked inquisitive eyes over her leather clad body, raising an eyebrow at the lack of clothing the outfit consisted of.  Laine had shrugged, amused and intrigued at his being so nonchalant about her going out the way she was.  That always piquied her about Dallas; he had absolute confidence in himself.  In his eyes, Laine could go walking around naked, as far as he was concerned, all that mattered was that she was with him and no one else._

_"Drive-in."_

_"Alone?"_

_Laine turned leisurely towards the young man, reclining herself comfortably against the bureau behind her.  She shrugged.  "Maybe."_

_A growl reached her ears, but that was all that did.  While Dallas was possessive and _**_could_**_ get jealous under the right circumstances, he wasn't the type to fall for that kind of bait.  Laine had tried to make him jealous previously, and while it worked, he didn't get quite that riled up.  Dallas had just gotten rather quiet—he'd looked at her oddly for a couple seconds before asking why she'd done it.  _

_"Oh, an', doll?"_

_"Yeah?"_

_"I might be goin' out with Tim later."_

_Laine felt herself stiffen.  Dallas could have been a human block of ice as far as she was concerned, but the young New York girl was about  as jealous as she was fiery.  It wasn't that she doubted her qualities; it was more that she knew how positively seductive Dallas tended to be.  He didn't do it on purpose, either.  Women were just drawn to him.  _

_"Where?"_

_Another shrug.  "Jay's.  The Dingo."_

_Laine narrowed her eyes.  The Dingo?  Tim and Dallas alone **at** the Dingo?  "Who's Tim goin' with?"_

_Dally shrugged.  "Sandra."_

_"Sandra?"_

_"Doll from Shepard's gang."_

_"Sandra?  The one with that—"_

_Dally chuckled amusedly.  "Glory, doll.  It ain't that bad.  She ain't goin' with me."_

_"Then who're you goin' with?"_

_Again, the tow-headed youth shrugged._

_"I know you, grease.  If you ain't goin' with no one it means you're goin' to find someone there."_

_A dark grin spread over the boy's lips.  "There ain't nothin' else to do."_

_            "Let Tim go alone…you know all they're goin' to do."_

_            "That's half the fun, doll."_

_            "C'mon," Laine approached the seventeen year old from the front and pressed a smooth kiss to his lips.  In response, Dallas hooked his thumbs onto the loops of her skirt at both sides of her hips and pulled down gently, so that she fell comfortably into his lap._

_            "C'mon, what?" he questioned, nuzzling his cheek against the side of her neck.  Before she could respond, he tugged her closer, so that she was trapped in the confines of his arms.  _

_            "Stay."  She wanted him to stay.  It was easy enough to say it, but convincing Dallas was another story.  He was liable to walk out at any moment without a look back.  _

_            Not bothering to acknowledge her remark, Dally let himself fall backward, the small weight of the young girl gathered about his abdomen as he bounced back slightly from the surface of his mattress.  Laine, not having expected the sudden turn of events, caught herself seconds before plowing into Dallas, pressing her palms at either side of his head.  "I might."_

_            "You will."  Dally smirked at her reply, raising his arms so that they brought her crushingly close to his body.  Having successfully captured his prey, the young man shifted directions, tumbling so that he was atop Laine, his weight supported by his elbows.  _

_            "Move up," he whispered slightly, nudging her absently with his cheek, motioning for her to adjust herself to the middle of the bed.  Laine complied.  _

_            Dally made little work of her clothes, sneering at the translucent cloth of the skin-tight top as he pulled it off Laine's body. He stroked the exposed area generously, smirking to himself at the young girl's attempts at curbing her desire. He knew she didn't like it.  If there was something Laine hated, it was showing that his hands made her crazy; it was a weakness she didn't readily admit.  _

_            "Ya're still dressed," came the ragged notice, coupled with a longing tug at Dally's white blond locks.  Disregarding it, he only let his fingertips come around Laine's back, feeling her body arch against his as she sought to make the removal of her bra easier.  It helped, and it certainly made Dallas all the more aroused when the bare nips of her breasts rubbed against his clothed chest.  _

_            She was still wearing her boots, Dally absently noted, wincing a bit as a heel dug into the inside of his calf.  He didn't mind that sort of thing.  Normally, he was quick to rid Laine of that particular dressing item, what with her preference in shoes centering around those with high, thin heels, but he needed release then and there, and shoes simply weren't an issue.  Shifting, he was only mildly aware of the fingertips stumbling to undo the buttons of his jeans.  Damn those buttons…_

_            Top stripped bare, Laine closed her eyes at the onslaught of sensation.  Dallas was all too good at what he did…he could make her feel so…and it all happened so quickly when she was with him.  With everyone else it just wasn't as fulfilling—it wasn't as urgent as it was when she was with Dallas…_

_"Hey, Dal—"_

_A male voice broke through the previous silence of the room.  Laine felt Dallas stiffen against her, anger and  frustration coursing through his body at having been interrupted at that particular moment.  _

_She shifted upwards a bit, squinting her eyes slightly and catching sight of a bewildered Tim Shepard.  He certainly hadn't expected the scene before him.  Laine groaned inwardly and let her head fall dejectedly back into the bed.  He must've stopped by to pick up Dally and head over to the Dingo.  Argh…_

_"Hi there, Laine."_

_Laine grunted a greeting and pushed Dallas roughly away, curling a spare sheet about her bare chest.  All the while, she glared murderously at Tim.  Though Dally was just as ticked as Laine, he kept his distaste less evident.  "Get out, Tim." _

_            The Shepard leader simply grinned.  "Loved to, but me and Dal are due to meet some dolls over at the Dingo."_

_            Dallas glared.  Was Tim looking to be shot?  Well, that could certainly be arranged._

_            Laine cast Dally an annoyed glance but smirked seductively at Tm, letting the sheet about her bosom drop a bit.  "Have fun, then."_

_            That was all Dallas needed to lose his resolve.  As much as he hated being at the command of a woman, his hormones often controlled__ him, and this time was no exception.  Laine, however, had had her share of irritation for the day, and seemed to have to interest in crawling back into bed with him._

_            "Shepard?"_

_            "Yeah, doll?"_

_            "Send Curly my regards."_

_            At the mention of Curly, Dally nearly growled.  As of then, nothing had yet happened between Laine and the younger Shepard, but Dallas had taken notice that Curly hadn't been particularly discreet in his attraction for Laine.  He didn't like it.  _

_            "What're ya menain' doll?  You know Curly ain't got nothin' with you.  Stop teasin' Dal."_

_            Laine merely raised a finely arched brow.  "Didn't know you was into voyeurism.  How'd you know if me and Curly did anythin'?  I don't 'member seein' you there."_

_            Despite his tough attitude, Tim's cheeks burned mildly.  "I ain't into voyeurism…whatever that is."_

_            Laine smirked and swung her legs to the side of mattress.  They barely reached the floor, she was so small.  Cocking her head interestedly to the side, she approached Tim, naked toes padding against the cushioned surface of the carpet.  She was still holding the sheet against her breasts, but didn't seem at all bothered by the fact that he was there…and seemed to have even less modesty about being topless near him.  _

_            "It's when you like to see others….like that.__"  She was so close he could almost feel the heat radiating from her body.  He glanced awkwardly ay Dally from his position, torn between running and saving his dignity.  He was surprised to see the towhead eyeing Laine curiously, his expression more amused than anything else._

_            For a brief moment, Tim wondered if Laine was as shameless with Dallas as she was being with him.  Well, it would certainly explain why his friend was so taken with the girl, but still…he didn't like it.  It made her less trustworthy in his eyes…a liability.  Tim didn't like the idea of her flirting with anyone other than Dallas.  Sexist, perhaps, but both Greasers had reputations to protect.  Remembering she had only just said something to him a few minutes ago, he added, "An' I ain't into that."_

_            Laine smirked.  "Not too many people are."_

_            "Sayin' you are, doll?"_

_            "No.  I ain't"_

_            Tim scoffed when he spotted her sudden discomfort.  "Sure 'bout that, doll?"_

_            Her features hardened.  "I sure as hell ain't.  I ain't  sick like that."_

_            "Oh?"_

_            "I've been worse places than you Shepard.  Where I come from, there ain't no such thing as sleepin' alone.  Someone's always watchin'…and someone is always—sure as hell exists—ready to follow you around for somethin' afterwards, too."_

_            "Y'all stop fightin',"  Laine paused in her ranting and shifted her glance towards Dally.  He was looking ready to go.  She pouted.  Did he have__ to go?_

_            "C'mon, Tim."_

_            Ushering out the curly-haired Greaser, Dallas turned back and placed a smoldering kiss on her lips.  "Don't worry, doll."_

_            "I ain't worryin'"_

_            He eyed her oddly then, flashed her a seductive wink, and was out of the room in all but five seconds.  _

_            A few minutes later, she herself had gone out with Evie, keen on finding a Greaser to spend the night with._

            They'd been so careless then…so uninvolved.  She had been jealous to hear that Dallas was going to meet with another girl—Sylvia no doubt—but she hadn't been _hurt_ that he was with another woman.  She was just possessive about what she thought belonged to her; she hadn't liked sharing…she never had.  But as time wore on, things had changed…now, at the prospect of she and Dallas moving away—the idea that he would be with someone else—it hurt…it hurt and it confused her.  When had their relationship turned from sex to…well…love?

(    *     *      *   )

            "Jay's?"

            Angela nodded absently.  "Meetin' someone there?"

            Again, Angela answered, this time with a mischievous grin.  "An' Tim'll never know 'cause he's with Dal, somewhere.  If he asks I'll just say I went with you."

            Laine shrugged.  It was all the same to her.  She hadn't gone out in a while and she was yearning to be in a crowd again…More than anything, however, she wanted to test out a theory.  The other day Dallas had muttered something about her only being uncomfortable with him.  And, well, it _had_ been true—at least partially so.  At the moment, she was wondering whether or not she'd be able to be with another man intimately again…she knew it wasn't going to happen with Dallas anytime soon…but maybe it would work with someone else?  "Let's go then."

            The place was packed.  Greasers inside, Greasers outside…news of Sodapop's attack had spread fast, and it had made Jay's more of a hotspot than it had been.  _Everyone_ wanted to see where the fight had taken place and how events had unraveled.  It didn't bother Laine much, though.  She was used to the hustle and bustle, having lived in New York City, but couldn't help the feeling of anxiety that manage to seep into her bones.  "Hey, doll."

            The remark hadn't been meant for her, Laine noted, carelessly eyeing a Greaser that had approached Angela.  He was of slight built and looked vaguely familiar.  With a smirk, Laine rolled her eyes at the glaring resemblance; the Greaser was practically the spitting-image of Ponyboy Curtis.  Well, she should've known—Angela was always complaining about the boy.  "Laine—I'm goin' out for a while."

            Laine nodded and watched the thirteen year old disappear into a rusty black T-Bird, the Pony-lookalike trailing close behind.  _She's too young to be doing that_, she couldn't help but think, then, smirking at her own age, pushed away wheat bangs.  

            Figuring she might as well get something to drink to help pass the time, Laine sauntered over to the bar and sat down on one of the stools, crossing right leg over left out of habit.  "Beer?"

            She eyed the bartender questioningly.  What else had they to serve?  "Nothin' else?"

            The auburn-haired man shrugged.  "Combinations of sorts.  Jay's ain't jus' beer and rumbles, doll."

            Laine smirked at that.  She never would have thought that Jay's served anything _other_ than beer…it was practically cannon.  "What else can ya get me?"

            Taking the statement as an invitation to continue, the bartender—who couldn't've been older than twenty—smirked in a manner that was very similar to Dally's.  "Nightcap."

            "Ain't that expensive?"

            A slight shrug of the shoulder.  "Ain't no one gotta know."

            Smiling at that, Laine pinned the man with a piercing gaze.  "What's your name Greaser?"

            _'Wait…what's your name, doll?'_

"Anthony—Tony, actually.  You?"

            "Laine."

            _'Laine.'_

            "Do you…?"  Laine trailed off, feeling awkward for a moment.  She wasn't used to this—wasn't used to feeling insecure when dealing with men.  Normally, she'd have pressed a teasing kiss to his lips and sauntered seductively towards another room, signaling with her eyes for him to follow, but now…

            Tony smiled apologetically.  "Can't."

            "Oh…"  That might've been the first time she had ever been turned down.  Maybe…

            "I'm workin'.  Need the money."

            Laine felt herself nod numbly.  "The drink?" she murmured softly, feeling just like she had that night when she and Dally had tried to be together, only for her to push him away in tears.  She was feeling that way again…helpless.  

            "Comin' up, doll."  As Tony whipped together her drink, he glimpsed at her from his position behind the bar.  

            "Ain't you Dally's doll?"  the young man asked, placing a tall glass in front of her in a smooth motion.  The words, though heard, went unheeded, as Laine merely took a long sip of the drink.  Figuring she hadn't heard him the first time, Tony posed the question again.  He knew she'd seen her with him a couple of times—it wasn't the first time she'd come to Jay's after all, but still…

            "Dallas…?"

            "Yeah, doll, ain't you?"

            "I…I don't….I ain't really know."

            Surprised at her sincerity, Laine bit her lower lip uncertainly.  She didn't like this new facet of her persona…didn't like exploring all the new and unknown emotions coursing through her.  With each passing day, she was beginning to feel more vulnerable and small.  _More like a child…_

            Maybe that was what bothered her.  She'd never had a childhood after all, so feeling neglected and scared like a child didn't sit well with her for two reasons:  she'd never experienced the feeling before, having grown up very much alone, and she'd never had to deal with pressing emotions.  Usually, she's pushed them away; she'd never had a chance to analyze much of anything…

            "You ain't know?"

            Laine felt herself shake her head no.  And then, "…I ain't seen him in a while."

            Tony's lip twisted into a frown.  The look wasn't fitting in his face.  It made him look too much like a Greek statuette.  "Can you get me another drink—beer, please?"

            That was perhaps the first time she had ever used the word—please had never been in her vocabulary before then.  Complying, Tony pushed an uncapped bottle in her direction.  "Be right back," he murmured when another Greaser unpleasantly smacked a fist against the counter to grasp his attention.

            Her father had been an alcoholic.  Her uncle was one, too.  Johnny's dad, that is.  Laine absently wondered if she was one too.  Dally'd told her before that she drank too much.  _'I ain't wanna carry you to Buck's no more, doll…'_ he had protested the last time she'd drank herself into oblivion.  

            Glaring into her glass,  Laine tried to summon the memory of the last time she'd been drunk.  It hadn't been to long ago…just about a week ago—maybe more…that night with Mark.  That had been the last time.  

            Shaking her head, Laine took a hearty swing and finished off the bottle, pressing a smooth palm against her lips to dry them off.  Had he been there, Dally would have told her to use a napkin—or her shirt.  That kind of thing bothered him.  Well, she decided angrily, somewhat tipsy after that last of sip of beer, he _wasn't_ there, and she certainly didn't have to tend and adapt herself to his every peeve.  "I ain't no toy."

            She didn't know who she was speaking to, much less if she had meant to say what she had aloud…she just wanted to…

            "I'm thirsy."

            " 'Course you are, doll.  Water?"

            Laine brushed off Tony's mild attempt to keep her sober.  Managing a glare she continued, "Jus' beer."

            Tony couldn't deny her the request.  Were someone to receive wind that he had—which would certainly happen, probably at her own hand in an angry frenzy—he'd be fired.  He really couldn't afford to let that happen.  "Sure, doll."

            Laine had heard somewhere that 47% of people who had parents addicted to any type of substance were more prone to use it themselves.  She managed a lopsided smirk.  That virtually sent her into an inescapable abyss.  Glory, if her future was being influenced by her parents, Laine was as good as dead already.  

            She wondered if Dally's parents had been alcoholics.  He'd never talked about them, though she certainly hadn't expected him to.  If they had been—or were, for all she knew—he had definitely broken the mold.  Dally didn't like to drink…at least not on such a regular basis as she did.

            "Tony?"

            A slight nod of acknowledgement was all the response her inquiry received.  He was too busy fixing a drink.  "Do you know a Mark?"

            The man paused as if in thought, before nodding.  "Lives 'round here.  From Shepard's outfit, you mean?"

            Laine nodded.  Yeah, that was him.  "Yeah.  He was here earlier.  Was complainin' about somethin' or other.  Why?"

            "No reason.  Get me a drink, will ya?"

            Nodding, the boy disappeared for a few seconds, squatting and pushing some things aside on the storage cabinet, opening a box when he found it.  He placed two more bottles in front of him so that she wouldn't ask him for another later on.   "D'ya know where he lives?"

            "A house off Prospect.  'Round the corner.  Why?"

            Laine shrugged, downing the Heinsse labeled bottled.  "Curious.  Dallas got in a fight the other day.  Jus' wanted to know who he was."

            Not convinced, Tony hesitated before turning to another customer.  As he was pulling out a few new glasses, he heard a smooth, 'Thanks,' and the rustle of clothing.  At the same time, a stool in the bar squeaked as a weight was pulled off it.  When he looked up, Laine was near the door, clumsily pushing past another young girl who called out after her.  He glanced at the bottles scattered about the counter and counted under his breath.  "Ten…"  _She should've passed out by now…_

(    *     *    *   )

            He wasn't in his room.  Laine incompetently maneuvered her way through Dally's room, faltering here and there from the alcohol.  

            She opened his drawer noisily, steadying her swaying form by holding onto the bureau, and impatiently pushed aside boxers and undershirts.  She knew he had it _somewhere_.  He couldn't have taken it with him either, as he was probably with Tim.   Losing her patience, Laine gritted her teeth and began throwing aside what was in the way, leaving Dallas' drawer nearly bare in the process.

            And then…she found it.  Banned to the back of the drawer and shielded within a small hand towel, Laine had almost missed it.  Breathing out slowly, she palmed it, feeling the cold metal sting her frantic, warm hands.  _'It ain't loaded, doll—don't worry, I ain't goin' to shoot you.'_

            Laine frowned.  It wasn't loaded.  But…there _had_ to be bullets somewhere…

            Digging deeper, the young woman found what she had been searching for.  Then, before losing her resolve, hastily exited the greaser's bedroom, heater snuggly hidden within the folds of her skirt.  

            He'd had a long day.  Sodapop had been his usual self when he'd awakened and had even teased him about Laine's absence.  Hell, _everyone_ had.  Even Tim—who was the closest one to knowing what had actually happened—couldn't seem to hold back biting remarks.  

            The only thing that had gone wrong, according to Darry, had been the whole issue with the juvenile court.  

            "I ain't got time for this…"  Pushing his key into the room Buck had graciously—after a punch or two in the face—designated as his, Dally made his way inside and shut the door closed after him.  He was had pulled off his shirt and was halfway done with his jeans when the hair on the back of his neck prickled.  He felt as if he were being watched.  Turning curiously, he was surprised to come face to face with Laine.  

            He hadn't seen her in over a week, and he was surprised by the warmth that flooded his insides at the sight of her.  

            "Hey…" she whispered quietly, he voice so soft he had to strain his ears to hear.  

            "Hey."  Dally almost cursed his lack of originality.  Where were his playful remarks?  His teasing innuendos?

            She was sitting in the very far corner of the room.  He wondered why he hadn't seen her before, but dismissed the thought when she began to speak.  

            "Where were you?"

            Her voice was so low…

            "Hospital.  Sodapop got shot."

            A spark of interest in dull eyes.  "Yeah?"

            Dallas eased himself down beside her, imitating her posture and letting his back rest against the wall beneath the window.  She was hugging her knees to her chest, and her eyes curiously followed his movements as he did the same, the only difference being that he stretched his legs out before him, open in that innocently sensual manner most guys manage.

            "He's okay?"

            "Fine."

            A silence settled over the room then, but it wasn't an uncomfortable one.  The young man was the first to break it.  "I would've sworn you'd get yourself in trouble without me, doll."

            It was said in a smiling tone, but the teasing grin disappeared when its beholder took in the downward glance and stiffening of the body beside him.  "You ain't get into trouble, did you, doll?"

            "No…"

            Again, her voice was so soft he feared he'd miss her say something.  

            "Are you feelin' alright, doll?"

            A slight nod.  

            "Say somethin' will you?"

            Laine seemed to consider this option.  "You got cut."

            Dally was momentarily lost.  _Cut?_  Then, he followed her gaze and sheepishly pressed a palm to his chin.  "Yeah.  Blade slipped."

            "You ain't never done that before."

            "An' you ain't never been this long without sayin' somethin' sexy."

            Laine smiled detachedly at the words.  "I like you like this."

            Dally felt his lips quirk into a frown.  "How?"

            "Confused…your shirt open like that—hair messy."

            Dallas ran a habitual hand through his hair.  "I ain't confused," he complained. 

            Laine shrugged.  "Had fun?"

            "I jus' told you I was at the hospital."

            "An' before that?  At Jay's?"

            The young boy's frowned deepened.  For some reason, Laine's comments seemed devoid of emotion.  It was almost as if she didn't care for his answer—almost as if she were talking to him for the hell of conversation…

            "I ain't had time to, doll."

            "I was there, too."

            "I ain't see you," by then, Dallas was near shaking Laine into sense.  Her eyes were glazed as she spoke to him, her gaze penetrating through him as though he were an apparition to disappear any moment.

            "I went before you."

            "Are you drunk…?"

            Laine looked at him oddly for a few moments before breaking out in an almost frenzied looking grin.  Her eyes flashed dangerously with an emotion he had no time to register.  "I was."

            Dally sighed.  Well, at least she wasn't drunk _now_.  He wasn't sure he could deal with that on top of everything else.  "Why ain't you at Johnny's?"

            "Was there earlier today."

            Dally remembered what Johnny had mentioned to him in the hospital.  "It's late.  Let's get to bed."

            "What time is it?"  Laine seemed to contemplate something.

            " 'Round 5 in the morning…a little later, maybe."

            She nodded and perked up to Dally's next words.  "I didn't think you'd come here."

            "It was late," she whispered, letting her eyes return to the floor when Dallas rose from beside her, "an' I ain't have no place else to go."

            "C'mon—let's go."

            Laine was quiet.  Disinterestedly she picked at a loose floorboard near her toe.  She could feel Dally fall back next to her, heaving a silent sigh as he did.  "You ain't goin' to make me carry you, are you, doll?"

            No response.  Dally tried again, "Ain't you tired?"

            A slight, almost undetectable shake of the head.  He was about to open his mouth to say something more when Laine's doleful pale blue eyes rose to meet his.  _Dead_, her expression seemed to scream.

            "I didn't know…"  

Her voice practically died before it reached his ears.  

"What, doll?"

            "I ain't know."

            Concerned more than he liked to admit, Dally pulled the young girl into his arms and briskly stood—they could talk about this later.  Right now he was more troubled with her state than with what could've happened.  He ambled toward his bed and set her gently down upon it, kicking off his shoes and tugging her into the center, his embrace strong and unyielding.  

            He could feel her breath on his face, smelling faintly of alcohol and mint.  She cuddled close to him, body shivering slightly as she held on tightly to his bicep.  She didn't want him to pull away.  Shifting almost minutely, Laine buried her face in his chest, long hair cascading in waves behind her.  "Laine?"

            Laine let out an unsteady breath.  It was one of the few times he'd called her Laine.  Just like she had a habit of calling him Dallas, he had one of calling her 'doll.'

            To show she'd heard him, Laine raised her head to meet his eyes.  He was looking at her with a combination of concern and uncertainty.  "I…I need to change."

            It was his way of easing the tension in the room.  Nodding, Laine sat up a little, moving away just enough so that he'd be able to pull off his unbuttoned shirt and jeans.  She studied him with blank eyes as he undid the only remaining button of his shirt and tossed it carelessly aside.  She watched him hesitate and ponder for a few seconds before finally jerking off his navy blue jeans.  

            That was how he slept.  At least, that was how had always slept when she was with him…with just boxers and a smirk.  

            Tentatively he lowered himself beside her, surprised when the small bundle of warmth once again returned to his side, a small sigh escaping her lips.  She seemed to relax against him, breathing deep and regular.  And, as much as he wanted to deny it, Dally had to admit that he'd missed this…he'd missed having her pressed against him—not in a sexual manner, but just…just being held by him.

            "Dally?"

            "Don't speak, doll."

            Laine paused for a moment, before, "Why not?"

            As if to answer her question, the boy shivered as her breaths landed unintentionally against his exposed neck.  His breathing hitched a bit and certain parts of his body tightened despite himself. " 'Cause of that."

            Laine silently complied and nestled closer to the young man.  His heart beat steadily beneath her cheek, its rhythm comforting amidst all that had happened over the past week.  She almost didn't want to break the perfection of the moment.  "Dallas?"

            "Hmm…?"  He was sleepy, his eyes were shut and his tone was distant.

            "I think I killed him."


	12. The Interrogation

Chapter 12—The Interrogation…

Laine silently complied and nestled closer to the young man. His heart beat steadily beneath her cheek, its rhythm comforting amidst all that had happened over the past week. She almost didn't want to break the perfection of the moment. "Dallas?"

"Hmm…?" He was sleepy, his eyes were shut and his tone was distant.

"I think I killed him."

         One pale blue eye opened and glanced curiously at her.  Dallas cracked an amused grin.  "Don't tell me you saw that new movie Two-bit was talkin' bout…"

         Laine blinked.  Then opened her mouth to say something, but the young man interrupted.  "I hear the doll's a looker."

         "Dallas, I ain't—"

         "An' that she goes 'n kills off this other…"  Dally paused at the distressed look on the girl's face, "What's wrong, doll?"

         Laine took a deep breath.  "I think…I killed him."

         Dally cracked another grin, this one wavering slightly as he decided to play along.  "Who?"

         Laine glanced at him, taking in the slight stubble forming on his chin and the pixie-like curve of his nose.  "That greaser."

         Dallas' features glistened with alarm, "Who?"

         Laine feigned an amused grin, "That greaser…from the movie."

         Dally's eyes narrowed slightly in suspicion, but he dismissed his doubts in favor of sleep.  He was awfully tied, and those days without Laine had been murder on his mind.  He didn't thin k he could very well stand sustaining any more conversation.  "Go to bed, will ya doll?"

         Laine bit her lip and nodded.  Yes.  Sleep would be good.  Across from her, she could already see Dally furrowing himself beneath the cotton sheets of the bed.  He was gazing at her absently, seemingly fighting drooping eyelids in an effort to look at her.  "C'mon, Laine."

         Letting out a shaky breath, Laine felt her lip begin to quiver.  She was shivering, and her breathing was coming in shallow gasps.  Damn.  Rising hastily, she stood off the bed and swallowed thickly, chocking back the bile that rose up her throat.  She stumbled in the process, vision darkening for a second, and found herself crashing headfirst into a nearby wall.  

         Her little tirade through the room had Dally snapping up from bed and by her side in a matter of seconds.  He caught her just as she was trying unsuccessfully to crawl towards the window.  "Hey, hey…"

         His fingertips were soft against her shoulder, and he pulled her effortlessly back into him.  She relished the feeling of his body molded against hers…of his arms coming so comfortably about her shoulders—of his breath landing uninhibitedly at the nape of her neck.  "Don't…Dallas I have to—" 

         "Shh…" 

         A smooth kiss at the base of her hairline.

         "Dally—I'm not…"

         Another one, this one placed teasingly behind her earlobe.  Behind it, not on it…_She hates it when I kiss her on it…_

         Tears were flowing down her cheeks; product of his gentle touch, of his considerate nature…of his ever-increasing care for her.  _'This ain't ju' about sex, and you know it, doll."_

_         "No, it ain't…"_

         "Let go…please?"

         A hesitant pause before strong arms brought her body crushingly close.  _No._  

         "I need you close to me."

         She was startled by the confession.  Startled, and pushed beyond tears.  _Not now…please not…_

She could feel, her back to his chest, the soft, continuous pumping of his heart.  _Thump…Thump…Thump…_ He was alive.  Breathing.  Thinking.  Seeing.  _Needing_…

         "Dallas…Not, not now."

         Laine felt him stiffen slightly, then relax.  And then, she felt the soft vibrations of his laughter against her back.  He pressed his forehead against the crook of her neck, and chanced a slight peck of his lips against her shoulder.  She could feel him smiling.  _Smiling_…

         "I need you close to me."  It was a pleading now.  Not so much a statement as a request for something.  

         Lane could feel her eyelids falling closed.  She was giving up.  Getting lost in the fantasy, in the intoxicating aura that was Dallas.  Maybe when she awoke she'd be in a different reality.  There'd have been no Socs and Greasers, no Tony, no Johnny…no Mark.

         And, overwhelmed, she turned around in Dallas' arms and hid her face against his neck.  He didn't hear her soft whimpering as she pulled him closer still, and didn't realize how much she needed _him_…

         It was an almost desperate embrace, legs tangled together, hearts beating in unison…two bodies intertwined –one in tears, and the other feeling to the point of them because of it.  

         And, in the silence,  the soft words went almost unheard.  

_I love you…_

( * * * )

         "Dallas Winston?  You mean Dally?"

         A stark nod was all the notice Tony received for his inquiry.  Then, swallowing thickly, "He's been missin''?"

         "Yes.  Since," there was a slight pause as the police officer glanced back towards his clipboard.  Tony took the opportunity to glance nervously around the bar.  "Since last Thursday."

         Tony's eyebrows furrowed together.  "I—I'm sorry, I have no idea what you want me to say—"

         "Any information—things we need to know?"

         "Well…it would help if I knew what'd happe—"

         "Mark Dannielson was found murdered in a back alley.  Apparently Dallas was the only one linked to his possible murder.  They say his girlfriend," again, a hasty glance to the clipboard, "Laine, was a possible reason."

         "Killed?"  Dally had never struck Tony as being a murderer. 

         Another nod.  "Yes.  This past Wednesday.  He was shot."

         "That's impossible."

         The officer quirked an interested eyebrow, using his teeth to uncap a pen, leaving it ready to jot down any new information. "How so?"

         Tony glanced quickly around the bar, trying to remember his conversation with Laine.  Only bits and pieces flitted back to him, however.  "He was here the night before—him and his girl.  He kept gripin' about his gun.  Said he'd gotten in a fight and had it pulled off him."

         "Oh yeah?"

         Tony glared at the officer's disbelieving tone.  "Yeah.  It ain't the first time it happened.  Besides, Dally's gun ain't loaded.  Never is.  It's  a bluff, and everyone on Greaser territory knows it.  It's only to keep safe from them Socs."

         "You say he was here?"  The Officer seemed to totally disregard everything else Tony had said in favor of that one fact.  

         "Yep.  I remember all my clients.  His girlfriend took one helluva drink."

         To Officer waved this fact away dismissively.  "Anyone else seen him here—to confirm?"

         Tony thought quickly.  "Shepard."

         "Shepard?"

         Tony nodded curtly.  "Yeah.  Tim Shepard."

         Offering Tony a similar nod, the Officer quickly exited, heading towards the address Tony had hastily written down for him.  Then, sure he was out of sight, Tony skid towards the phone on the far-side of the bar, grateful that Tim had never paid any attention to him and had scribbled his phone number haphazardly on one of the booths.   He dialed quickly, breath hitching slightly when no one picked up, and let out a relived sigh when the phone was finally picked up.  "Hello?  Tim?  It's Tony.  Listen, the fuzz is headin' over now, its 'bout…"

( * * * )

         That damn bastard.  Dallas was and had always been, present or not, the cause of all of Tim's problems.  It hadn't been enough for the tow-head to disappear without word or farewell, but now he had to let _this_, of all things, befall them.  Tim knew, though, for a fact, that Dally wasn't Mark's murderer.  Dallas wasn't the type, for starters, and for another, he'd been with him that night until very late.  

         Thankfully, Tony'd been smart enough to head off the fuzz early on.  That would make things easier.  Now all Tim had to do was play along with all Tony had said.  Play along and pretend he wasn't that good a friend of Dally.  Otherwise the fuzz wouldn't buy a word of it.  _Glory, Dal.  I always said you were a bad omen…"_

         A few  minutes later, Tim rushed down the steps from his room towards the front door, telling Angela and Curly to make themselves scarce (he'd already informed them of what they had to say should they be interrogated).  That was a good thing about his siblings.  They sure as hell listened to him if the situation warranted for it.  

         "Mornin'."

         "G'Morning, Mr. Shepard.  May we come in?"

         Tim glowered.  That was a stupid question if he'd ever heard one.  Why bother asking if they were going to anyway?  And if he _didn't_ agree, then they'd sure as hell think he was hiding Dallas _somewhere_.  Tim shrugged in response, but held open the door.

         "I presume you know why we're here?"

         Tim rolled his eyes and played the part of the incompetent brother.  "Yeah.  My mom told me you'd be comin'.  So what's Curly failin' in school _this_ semester?"

         "Excuse me?"

         "Ain't y'all those people that visit every few weeks tellin' use how Curly's actin' up?"

         "No," one of the two officers, the one who'd remained quiet, meticulously adjusted his tie and avoided Tim's eye, "We're here on business dealing with Dallas Winston."

         "Dally?  What's that bastard up to, now/"

         "He's being charged with murder."

Tim didn't like the tone of that Officer.  The one who'd been fixing his damn tie.  Which had been, on another note, immaculate _anyway._  There was something malevolent about him.  Something not quite right.  

Tim feigned a look of incredulity.  "Dally?  Please…that bastard would sooner step on an ant than kill someone.  He's a pansy if I've ever seen one."

_Dally'd kill me if he ever heard that…_

"We understand," the other officer spoke up, "that it was his gun that discharged the bullet that killed Mark Dannielson."

Tim scoffed.  "Dally's gun?  That pansy ain't even _carry_ a loaded gun—that's how much of a sad bastard he was.  He carried this unloaded gun to scare off anyone that would try an' jump 'im.  Sad if I ever heard of it.  Everyone knows that.  An' Mark's another one.  He always steals from everyone.  Wouldn't surprise me if he tried to pull somethin' off someone an' got clipped because of it.  Besides, Dally ain't have that gun for ages.  Some grease took it off him when he was drunk off his ass."

"And his girlfriend?"  there was that other cop, again.  The one that gave Tim a bad vibe.  A bad feeling of foreboding.

Tim clucked his tongue.  "Dally ain't have no girlfriend.  Him and Laine broke up a while back.  She got it in her head that he was with another broad an' just got up an' left.  He's been with Sylvia sometimes…but that doll's just for pleasure."

"He broke up with her?"  His voice was even eerie, Tim noticed.

"Ain't you hear me right?  Said she left 'im."

"Do you know much about her?"

"Ev'ryone knows 'bout, Sylvia.  She does good work."

_And I bet Sylvia'd kill me too if she ever heard that…_

"Not about her, about the other one.  Laine."

"Not much.  I only know her through Dally.  An' half the time they weren't even together.  She'd Johnny's cousin, though."

"Johnny?"

Tim nodded.  "Yeah.  Cade.  Johnny Cade.  She's his cousin.  He ain't know much 'bout her either, though.  She's that kind of family that you know you have but ain't really _know._"

"Would you mind giving us the address?"

Tim shook his head, "The kid ain't got one.  He might be over by the Curtis' house, though"

"The Curtises?"

Tim nodded.  He was trying to throw as much information out about everyone in the neighborhood as he could.  It was partly to get the fuzz confused, and partly to give them ideas for people to interrogate.  At least, trustworthy people to interrogate.  He figured that Darryl's house was a good a place as any to get a whole load of people to testify for Dally's favor.  If there was one good attribute all Greaser's shared, it was their loyalty.  They covered for one another with all the fidelity of a family.  

"Yeah.  They live over two down after Prospect---"

( * * * )

Ponyboy nodded as he hung up the phone.  "Listen up y'all.  That was Tim.  Says the fuzz are out there lookin' for Dal.   We're supposed to shake 'em off.  Dally has a gun, but it ain't loaded—never is.  He lost his gun a few days ago—one or two weeks ago, we're not sure.  Laine and him weren't together.  And…uh, accordin' to what Tim and Tony've said, Dally's a wuss if they've ever seen one."  Pony paused at the snickering that erupted over the room.  "Glory y'all, pay attention."

"Got it."

"Soda and Steve—head out towards the DX, I'll give 'em ya're address when they come.  Johnny, go an' call Darry to tell 'im.  Two-Bit, you jus'…don't do nothing stupid.  An', Johnny?"

Deep black eyes locked on soulful green.  "You don't know Laine at all,, okay?"

A wry grin crossed the greaser's face.  "That won't be hard to pretend."

Ponyboy offered his best friend a consoling smile.  "Yeah."

_Glory, Dallas…where the hell are you?_

( * * * )

"All talk, no action."

Steve nodded at Soda's assertion, throwing down an oil-smeared rag and making his way over to where Soda was.  He took in the sight of the two police officers as he did so, and growled deep in his throat.  If those damned cops had been around to do their job at Two-Bit's party, then none of what was happening would've been taking place.  He knew about Laine's raping only because Tim had thought it wise to tell them, just in case they had to formulate a lie to cover up for the fact.  He'd been struck dumb when he'd heard the news—coming from Pony's own riling and revolted lips.  He hadn't known what to think.  That was something…that was something he couldn't imagine happening to anyone, much less Laine. 

Deciding it was time to put his two cents in, he added, "He's a good fighter—can hold his own in a fight…but—well, he ain't exactly someone I'd be afraid of.  And as for Mark…well—it was about time, I'd say.  He's stolen something form all of us."

Sodapop grinned, pushing strawberry colored bangs out of his face, "Stole my algebra notebook back in 9th grade."

         "Asshole.  He took my gym shoes that year, too."

         "R'member when Butch had to walk home in his socks!?"

         "Glory, Soda—Mark hit the spot there."

         The two greasers broke out in unrestrained laugher.  They were only mildly aware of the police's exit, but as soon as the two were out of earshot, they locked eyes.  

         _What have you gotten yourself into, now…_

Ahem…This **was** supposed to be the last chapter, but things would've been too long otherwise.  Erm, stay tuned for what happens with Sodapop, Darry, and Ponyboy (remember, there _was_ a whole foster-home case).  I have everything planned for the next few chapters.  **Reviews!**


	13. Crescendo

( * * * )

      Dallas let his eyes travel the length of Laine's body and sighed.  Bringing up his right hand to rub at his eyes, the young man shifted against the sheets and let out a tired yawn.  Last night had been…for lack of a better word, phenomenal…Especially because it had been so long since they'd last been together.  Dally cast Laine a side-glance.  

      She was beautiful.  Her pale, white-blonde hair cascading in delicate waves about her naked back…she was beautiful.  Dallas let his gaze linger on the young girl's face for a few seconds.  Her hair, sweaty and tangled, clung to the contours of her cheek, and—lying as she was, on her stomach, her head cradled in her arms—Dally could very vaguely see the outline of a scar that ran from the middle of her upper back, to an area just below her waist.  It was the scar a man had given her—one of the many she had acquired growing up on the streets…one of the many that served as a constant reminder to him of what she had been through.  He knew, as well as she did, that the night she'd nearly been raped—the night with Mark, wouldn't have been the first time she had been in that type of situation.  He knew better than to think that…

      Tentatively, he reached out a hand and traced the upraised scar from the very base, all the way down to its end.  He felt the girl stir at his movements, back arching towards his touch, and conceded her gentle, winding stroked up and down her nude spine.  He liked touching her.  It made him feel…fulfilled…and—ironically enough—it fed his ego to no end.  

      Laine stirred, and for a moment, Dally wagered whether or not to pull away.  In the end, he lifted his had only a few centimeters from her body before she rolled herself towards him.  Pale blue eyes lazily blinked open.  From behind a fringe of wheat-blond hair, two languid eyes locked onto Dallas' own blue orbs.  "Mornin'"

      Smirking a bit, Dally let his fingertips sink into her thick hair, and mussed it up slightly.  "Hey, doll."

      Laine snuggled into the young man, taking in a sharp breath as she did so…drawing in his essence…memorizing his scent.  She wrapped her arms about his naked torso, burying her face in his chest, and pressed a soft kiss to his collarbone.  "You're warm."

      Dally raised a pale eyebrow.  "I'm not warm.  You're just cold."  

      The young man used his fingertips to stroke tiny circles on Laine's left shoulder.  "You always get cold when you sleep like that."

      Laine's cheeks colored slightly, "I only get cold if you move."

      Dallas grinned and pulled the young woman closer to him, savoring the feel of her skin against him as he did so, and later shifted so that she lay perfectly atop him, her long hair falling like a canopy about them.  In that position, her chest brushing against his, legs splayed and intertwined, the two remained for a long time.  Laine pressed her cheek against the boy's chest, and contentedly listened to the steady beating of his heart.  "You're awfully heavy, doll."

      "Hmm…"  Laine's fingertips disappeared  in the thick mass of Dally's hair.   "You ain't really care, Dallas."

      "Yeah, I do—You'll brea—"  Laine made a point of shifting purposely over the young man, smiling inwardly when his words faded into a disgruntled groan.  

      Dally said nothing, waiting instead for the girl to cease her teasing movements, and then used the opportunity to pin her down against the mattress.  Holding her carefully in place, he buried his lips in her neck, kissing, nipping, suckling.  He released her hands as she began to squirm, careful always to give her enough room to escape…because he didn't want to force her into anything—never force her…

      "You're heavier…"  the words were whispered—breathless, and spoken in conjunction with palms pressed evenly against a well-developed chest.  Laine arched her back to allow Dally's arms to wrap about her.  She closed her eyes.

      "I don't…"  Dallas paused as Laine nipped his shoulder slightly, "I ain't puttin' all my weight on you…"

      Laine winced as Dally readjusted himself atop her, using his elbows to prop himself up, and accidentally pulled on her hair.  "Sorry, doll…"

      "…Dal…just—"

      Dallas, hovering just a few inches above the young girl, descended upon her at the silent request.  And…rather softly, "I love you…"

      And, just as quietly, eyes closed and cheeks flushed, the words were echoed, "I love you, too."

( * * * )

~Finito 

*sigh*  After nearly two years, Survival has come to an end…I admit, not the sauciest or liveliest ending

but I hope you guys liked it nonetheless.  Keep a lookout for my other stories!

~The Weaver Atropos~

Note:  Thanks to all those who reviewed, most notably **zevie**, **Modest Vanity, DallysGirl4Life, and MoonMyst.**  Thanks for all your positive comments!!


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